CIA II: Nor Do They Understand
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: Part two of my CIA series. Sequel to Followed. You should probably read that first, because you'll miss out on important details otherwise. Tim-centered, as usual. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story is a sequel to _Followed_ and you really should probably read it before reading this one. The story is Tim-centered as usual, and, as usual, contains the rest of the team as well. A word of caution, however. This story is the second in what has become a three story arc. There will be another story after this and this one ends with a slight cliffhanger. You can still read and enjoy, I hope, but it will take some time for me to write the third part. If you're curious, each chapter title is a part of a scripture. I did not make them up myself.

**Disclaimer:** I take no credit for NCIS, and I am not making any money off it...which is too bad because I'm going to be out of money soon. :)

* * *

**Nor Do They Understand**  
by Enthusiastic Fish

**Chapter 1: Speaking They Speak Not**

They should be opening the bag soon. He hoped. He really hoped that they wouldn't leave him there until the next morning.

_Please, open the bag. Just unzip it!_

"Do you know what this reminds me of, Mr. Palmer?"

Tears slipped out of his eyes. Welcome voices. Although he couldn't make any noise, he could hear. He was all-too-aware of where he was...of what could be in store.

"No, Doctor. Is it an exciting story?"

"Of course, it is, Mr. Palmer. _All_ of my stories are exciting."

There was no response.

"What I was going to say was that it reminds me of our first encounter with Ari Haswari."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Doctor."

"No need to apologize, my boy. We got a body bag from the Israeli embassy. Instead of the dead body we had expected, it was our friend, Ari...unfortunately, still alive."

"You'd have to be pretty desperate to want to get places in a body bag, Dr. Mallard."

"Yes, indeed. Desperate or determined. Either way, it is not what I would choose."

_Please, get me out of here!_

"Ducky, do you have anything on our dead lieutenant?"

_Gibbs! Don't distract him! Let me out of here!_

"Oh, hello, Jethro. No, I'm afraid not. We received a new body from Timothy a little while ago."

"McGee sent you a body?" Gibbs asked, confused. "He's on assignment in New York. Why would he ship a body back here?"

"I have no idea, but it appears to be his signature. See?"

More tears. More fear. Less air. _Please, get me out before I die for real!_

"He checked in a couple of days ago, but he never said anything to me about a new body. His work isn't even supposed to be dealing with bodies. He's working with a UN-sponsored anti-terrorism group. Jenny recommended him for it. He's due back tomorrow."

It was so dark inside the bag. He was weak, paralyzed and absolutely terrified. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to survive the trip. It was a hazy mass of bumps, bruises and pain all suffered in silence...and in darkness. He had clung fiercely to consciousness, afraid that if he fell asleep, he'd wake up on an autopsy table. They certainly had intended it that way...or worse. He remembered their final words before zipping up the bag.

"_I've heard that you can survive an autopsy."_

"_Right up to the point where they start taking out your organs!"_

"_Tell NCIS hello for us, will you?"_

Then, they had laughed and loaded him up. The driver asked no questions. It wasn't his place. Tim was fairly certain that the bleeding had stopped...at least, he couldn't feel it anymore...beyond that, he had no idea of his physical state...beyond the fact that he was probably still alive.

_Oh, please. Please...someone open the bag!_

"I was just about to call and verify. Would you like me to finish up on the lieutenant first or get this puzzle straightened out?"

"I'll call McGee. You get back to the autopsy. I want this case wrapped up as quickly as possible."

_Yes, call me! Please..._

Tim's cell phone started ringing...from the body bag on Ducky's table in Autopsy. The three men stood motionless as the phone continued to ring without stopping as Gibbs listened to the ring in his ear. Gibbs disconnected. The ringing stopped. He redialed. The ringing resumed.

"Oh..." Ducky said and stopped. Jimmy was pale at the sound of the phone. Gibbs may as well have been a statue. Ducky walked over to the bag. He hesitated and then began to unzip the bag, afraid of what he'd be seeing.

_Light again! Ducky! Help!_ He couldn't say any of the words aloud, but he thought them so fiercely that he was sure it must have shown in his eyes.

"Timothy! Jethro...it's Timothy. He's not dead." A hand waved over his face and Tim blinked.

Then, Gibbs was leaning over. More tears fell from Tim's eyes as he realized that he was still alive and wouldn't be undergoing an autopsy.

"What's going on, McGee?"

Tim desperately wanted to answer. He really did...but he couldn't. All he could do was blink...and cry.

Ducky unzipped the bag more. Tim's shirt was missing, but his arms were folded across his chest...almost like a mummy. There was duct tape wrapped around his arms, his legs, his mouth.

"I'm going to remove the tape from your mouth, okay, Timothy?"

Tim didn't move.

Ducky looked at him in concern. "Blink twice, if you understand me."

Tim blinked. Twice.

"Is it all right if I take off the tape? Blink twice."

Blink. Blink.

Ducky took it off as gently as he could. Tim breathed in more deeply through his open mouth, but he still didn't move.

"McGee, who did this?"

Tim made strange sounds, but they weren't words. His mouth moved, but it wasn't to form sentences. Incomprehensible syllables fell from his lips. His eyes were panicked, but he didn't move...except for his mouth as he breathed in and out with no regard for the sound he was making.

"Calm down, Timothy. Calm down. Don't try to speak," Ducky said. "Did they hurt you other than putting you in here?"

More sounds came out. Ducky immediately put his hand over Tim's mouth.

"No, Timothy. Just blink. Twice for yes. Once for no. Did they hurt you?"

Blink. Blink.

"All right. We'll see what we can see. Mr. Palmer, if you could assist me?"

"Of...of course, Doctor." Jimmy came hesitantly up to the table and looked at Tim lying motionless on the table, most of his body still within the confines of the body bag. He finished unzipping the bag and gasped at Tim's bare ankles. They were rubbed raw. They quickly left his mind, however, when he saw Tim's blood-soaked pants. "Doctor Mallard!"

"Oh, dear," Ducky said and silently gestured for Jimmy to cut open his pants. He did so and it revealed bloody, shredded skin. There were splintered bones sticking out of both legs. Jimmy pressed bandages over the wounds. They turned red.

More tears fell from Tim's eyes and he looked at Gibbs, seemingly trying to convey an important message, but no words came from him.

"We had better call an ambulance."

Those words triggered an immediate reaction. Tim's unintelligible noises increased in both volume and frequency.

"What is it, Timothy? You need to go to the hospital. This more than I can treat here."

Blink. ...only once.

"You are seriously injured."

Blink.

"McGee, do you think the people who did this will be watching for you?"

Tim just stared...and made more noises. Ducky gestured to Jimmy.

"Stay with him, Mr. Palmer."

"Yes, Doctor." Jimmy looked at Tim and tried to smile encouragingly. "Do you want me to take off the rest of the tape, McGee?"

Blink. Blink.

"Okay." Carefully, he began to cut off the duct tape, freeing Tim's limp limbs. He could hear Ducky and Gibbs talking in low voices, but he concentrated on causing as little additional pain as he could.

Tim just lay without moving.

"Does it hurt, McGee?"

Blink. Blink.

"I'm sorry."

Tim stared as much as to say, "it's not your fault."

Behind them, Gibbs asked, "What's wrong with him, Ducky?"

"I have no idea, Jethro. If he were dead, I could cut him open and tell you, but as it is, it could be a stroke, a lesion, psychological or physical trauma; it could a drug. I honestly don't _know_. What I do know is that if Timothy does not receive medical attention for his injuries, he'll more than likely die, from shock if nothing else. Who knows how long he's been this way. It's at least a four-hour drive from New York to here."

Gibbs looked back at Tim, still mostly encased in the bag, Jimmy slowly removing the duct tape which seemed unnecessary considering Tim's current state.

_What in the world is going on?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Seeing, They See Not**

Ducky followed Gibbs' gaze and then spoke again. "Jethro, I don't care if you send all of NCIS as a guard; Timothy _must_ be treated in a hospital. Otherwise, he really _will_ belong in that body bag."

Gibbs looked away from Tim to Ducky and nodded. That was as far as he got in his capitulation before his phone started to ring. He sighed when he saw that it was Jenny.

"Gibbs," he said shortly.

"Jethro, have you heard from McGee recently?"

Gibbs looked over at Tim once more. He was making those same incomprehensible sounds again. "Yes."

"When?" Jenny asked, impatiently. "I just had a rather annoyed phone call from Lisa Daley in New York. He's missed two of the last three meetings and she wants to know why NCIS is treating terrorism so lightly. She expected better of us...and to tell the truth, I expected more of McGee. Where is he?"

"I'm looking at him right now, Jen. He's in Autopsy."

"What is he doing there? He's supposed to be in New York."

"Laying on one of Ducky's tables."

There was a long silence and then, "Jethro..."

"He's alive, but he's been injured. Ducky's calling for an ambulance right now."

"What _happened_?"

"I have no idea. Ducky opened a body bag apparently sent by McGee from New York and McGee was inside."

"_Inside?!_ Did...is he conscious?"

"Conscious, yes. Coherent, no. I can't tell you anything about what happened. He seems to be scared about going to a hospital, but other than that..."

"What do you need?"

"Just Tony and Ziva for now. We'll see when McGee starts talking again. I think we need to open a case on this, Jen."

"Absolutely. Anything you need." She paused again. "Have you told Abby yet?"

Gibbs winced. "No, but I'd better."

"Yes, you had."

Gibbs sighed.

"Just remember to tell her that he's alive."

Gibbs didn't answer. Instead he hung up the phone.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim's view was rather restricted. He could see around, but he couldn't seem to move. He wasn't sure why. He could feel every part of his body...particularly his legs. He could _really_ feel his legs. He could remember the feeling of the bones being crushed. More tears. _Why did this happen to me? Why did they do this?_

"Timothy?" Ducky was leaning over him again. "I've called an ambulance. They should be here soon."

_No! No! I can't leave! No!_ Tim tried to say the words, but all he heard were strange, nearly animal-like noises. _What's wrong with me? Why can't I speak? Why can't I move? What's going on?_

"Timothy, please calm down! Tony and Ziva are coming. They will guard you. As will Gibbs. You will be perfectly safe."

_Safe? Safe?! I've been trapped inside a body bag, Ducky! No place is safe!_ Tim tried and tried to get the message across, but all he succeeded in doing was flailing his arms once, leaving his left arm on his stomach and his right arm somewhere near his head. ...at least he had moved. Then, he saw Ducky staring at his chest.

"Jethro, look at this," he said.

"What is it, Ducky?" Gibbs came and loomed and Tim saw that fierce anger swell up in his eyes.

Tim managed to flail again, slightly more in control this time so that his left arm landed near Gibbs and his right arm near Ducky. He attempted to grab onto them, but that action seemed to be beyond his abilities.

_What's going on? Why are you staring at me like that? What happened? Help! Help!_ Tim opened his mouth again and all that came out was a panicked shriek.

Immediately, Ducky looked him in the eye. "It's all right, Timothy. You're not hurt...at least not anymore than we can see right now. Mr. Palmer, the camera, if you please?"

"Yes, Doctor." Tim watched Jimmy recede from his line of sight and then return and focus the camera on his chest. He snapped a couple of photos. "Is that enough?"

"Yes, that will do, Mr. Palmer. Thank you."

"Yes, Dr. Mallard." Jimmy then made eye contact with Tim. "McGee...do you remember what happened?"

Tim wanted to nod. He wanted to scream at them and tell them everything...but he couldn't. The words were in his head, but they weren't in his mouth. Instead, he blinked. Twice.

Then, the doors to Autopsy opened. Tim heard them...and he heard two simultaneous intakes of breath. _Tony! Ziva! Help me! I can't move!_ Tim thought desperately. ...but only strange sounds came out of his mouth. Tim flailed again, his left hand actually hitting Gibbs. He tried to grab on, but his fingers wouldn't do as he told them.

"McGee!" "Probie!" The two exclamations shortly brought Tony and Ziva to stand over him. Tim felt humiliated at his current position, but he was also afraid...because _they_ looked afraid.

"What happened?" Ziva asked.

Before Tim could embarrass himself further by gabbling meaninglessly, Ducky answered, "We don't know yet. All we know is that Timothy was injured and somehow forced back here, unable to speak or move much."

"Couldn't you take him out of the bag?" Tony asked. "That's really...disconcerting."

"I don't want to jostle him more than he most likely has been already."

_Don't make me leave! Please, let me stay here!_ Tim begged silently. He turned his eyes from Tony and Ziva back to Gibbs. _Please, Boss! No!_

Then, he realized that he had started making noise again. Tony and Ziva were horrified...and it was just too much. Tim began to cry, his mouth still moving as he tried to break through whatever was holding him back, keeping him from speaking, from moving. The sounds didn't stop when he inhaled. They just took on a different tone. Tim really wanted to speak, but he couldn't. He felt as though he was a prisoner.

The doors opened once more. Tim didn't hear them, but he heard the Abby-shriek and then, almost before he saw her, he was being lifted and hugged. Vaguely, he heard Ducky asking her to put him back down, to be careful. Tim just closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he was just being hugged by Abby, that there was nothing wrong, that in moments Gibbs would walk into the lab and make a comment about them needing to get back to work. He almost succeeded.

Almost...and his palpable anguish, both physical and mental kept the others from seeing.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Jenny hung up the phone and put her hands to her temples. It was bad enough getting that call from Lisa. It was bad enough hearing the report from Gibbs. This latest call...it was worse.

"How can things get any worse than this?" she asked the empty office. She was about to stand and go down to Autopsy herself when Cynthia buzzed her. She sighed. She had a feeling it was about to get worse. "What is it, Cynthia?"

"You have an urgent call in MTAC. Classified."

"Trouble obviously doesn't only come in threes, then."

"Ma'am?"

"Never mind. Tell them I'll be right there."

"Yes, ma'am."

Jenny leaned back and sighed again. She knew that it couldn't be over yet...even if it _had_ been six months...but she had _hoped_ that it was. Well, the MTAC call wouldn't go away just because she wanted to avoid it. One more deep sigh and she stood, walked around her desk and then out the door and to MTAC. She thought that she knew who it would be.

She was right.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim had managed, even with only marginally-functional limbs to whack one of the EMTs in the face when they tried to put the neck brace on. He was still speaking incomprehensibly, but the panic was such that even if he _had_ been able to speak, his words would more than likely have been garbled.

"Tim! Stop that!" Abby said, trying to help.

Tim blinked once. Then, he blinked again. Another pause. Another blink.

"You'll be safe, Tim! We're going with you! You won't be alone! I promise!"

Tim's screams almost drown her out, but she turned his head toward her. She didn't say anything, but she kept looking at him, not letting him look away. Gradually, Tim stopped screaming. He stared at her. Slowly, she put her hand over his mouth, stilling his crazed ramblings. Tim didn't struggle as the EMT, rubbing his nose and wincing, put the neck brace on.

"We're all going, right, Gibbs?" Abby asked.

Gibbs nodded. "You ride with him. The rest of us will follow behind."

"Okay." Abby helped the EMTs move Tim to the gurney and then, she went out with them.

"Boss, McGee's never going to want to leave NCIS again at this rate," Tony said. "Do you know how long it took us to get him to stop looking over his shoulder enough to go to New York?"

"Four months, two weeks, three days, and five hours," Ziva answered.

Tony looked at her in surprise. "You _counted_?"

"I did not need to count. I just remembered."

"As soon as McGee calms down, we'll be heading to New York. I want to find out what happened whether from McGee or from the people there." With that, Gibbs strode out. Ziva and Tony followed.

Jimmy looked at Ducky. "Are we going, Doctor?"

"Put our lieutenant away. Of course, we're going, Mr. Palmer."

Jimmy nodded. Within five minutes, Autopsy was empty.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"I don't like being kept waiting," Jenny said icily. "I was told this was urgent. I have other urgent matters needing my attention."

"Nice to hear your lovely voice again, Director Shephard. It is _extremely_ urgent. I need to speak to your Agent McGee."

"Why?"

"We have a big problem...and I have reason to believe he might be in danger."

Jenny looked at the man on the screen and tried to tamp down on her anger and frustration. He was generally rather easy to get along with...in a strange way.

"Could you please get to the point?"

"Certainly. Remember these people?" Two photos appeared on the screen.

"Yes. Why?"

"They're currently at large."

"At _large_?"

"Yes."

"How did _that_ happen?"

"Sloppiness on the job is not at issue here."

"Well...you're a little late telling us."

"Why?"

"Because Agent McGee is currently on his way to the hospital...after traveling via body bag as near as we can tell from New York City to the Navy Yard."

"How do you know that's because of us?"

"Are you trying to tell me that _you_ believe in coincidences?"

"Actually, I do...although not in this case."

Jenny rolled her eyes.

"Well, you'd do well to keep him under guard."

"Don't tell me how to do my job. You should focus on your own. It sounds like you've been having some trouble with that. Tell me: Is the CIA _always_ this sloppily run?"

He grinned. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Jenny did not grin. "No. I'm not."

"Well, that makes one of us then. I'll need to speak to Agent McGee. I shouldn't need to mention this, but this has to be classified."

"Why is that?" Jenny asked. "Give me one good reason _not_ to let the media know that the CIA has screwed up...again."

"Because there's more to it than Agent McGee."

"What more?"

"Forgive me if I keep some things to myself at the moment. I'll need to speak to Agent McGee...as soon as is recommended by his doctors. I'll be keeping tabs. Honesty will help us all get through this better."

"You're one to speak of honesty."

"I've been honest. I'm honestly _not_ telling you everything. That's need to know and you don't. Not yet." Then, he signed off.

Jenny stared at the blank screen where CIA Director Levi Carew had been moments before. So...they were free. That was a definite problem. The sooner the others knew, the better. She pulled off the headset and walked out of MTAC.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Hearing, They Hear Not**

Tim was in surgery. The emergency MRI had apparently shown nothing dangerous in his head...so they were fixing his legs. Abby knew that. That's why she was sitting so calmly, her only outward sign of worry her hands clenched tightly together. She wasn't pacing or freaking out. Her worry ran much deeper than that because she wasn't worried about Tim dying. She was worried about Tim _living_...living as he had been in the ambulance, jabbering incoherently, afraid, frustrated...unmoving. _That_ was what worried her.

He had tried so desperately to speak, to explain, but there were no words. All his words were stuck inside his head...at least for now. But Abby had decided that she was going to stay calm. She was not going to let her mouth run away with her. There was no reason to try and make up for Tim's current deficiency by using up all the words in existence. No, she would stay...

"Abby."

Abby jumped. "Gibbs!" she said, almost shouting. "Tim's in surgery. They didn't find anything wrong with his head I guess because they're just working on his legs now. I haven't heard anything yet. They won't tell me anything, but I think he's going to be okay. At least, I think his _legs_ are going to be okay. They didn't seem too worried about it at all, but Gibbs, he can't speak. Why can't he speak? What's going on? Who did this to him? Why Tim? What did he do? What if he never speaks again? He couldn't even move! Why is he paralyzed? Gibbs..."

"Abbs. Sh." Gibbs hugged her to get her to stop talking.

"Oh, Gibbs," Abby said, tears in her eyes. "We worked so hard to get him to feel safe again, to feel like himself again. Hasn't he been through _enough_?"

"Yes, Abby, he has," Gibbs said. "Unfortunately, we don't make the decisions on what happens to McGee."

"Well, we _should_," Abby said firmly.

"Where's McGee?"

Abby looked over Gibbs' shoulder and saw Jenny walking down the hall.

"In surgery," Gibbs said shortly. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"We have a bigger problem than I thought at first."

"Bigger than McGee traveling via body bag?"

"The CIA is involved."

Gibbs sighed. "Again?"

"Yes, again...and in the worst way, Jethro. They broke out."

"What?!" Abby shrieked. "How in the world did _that_ happen?"

"I don't know. Director Carew wasn't particularly forthcoming, but he feels that McGee is in danger...and quite frankly, I'm inclined to agree."

"Yeah...just maybe, Jen. I have Ziva and Tony standing guard outside the OR, but they can't be there 24/7."

"They won't have to be. I'm starting an official protection duty. Two guards at all times. They'll have a list of those who are to be admitted to McGee's room. Anyone _not_ on the list who tries to get in will be detained and questioned...or vouched for by either myself, you or McGee's doctor."

"I'm going to take Ziva and Tony to the UN and try to trace McGee's movements, as soon as we know he's okay. Once he can talk again..."

"He can't talk? You mentioned that before. I assumed you just meant because of his injuries."

"He's making...noises, Jen, but he's not speaking actual words. He knows it and it scared him...probably almost as much as leaving NCIS did."

"What are the odds that these same people got at him again?"

"I don't care about the odds...but I'd bet quite a bit that they're behind whatever happened."

"So...what now?" Abby asked.

"Now, we wait...wait and see," Gibbs said, sitting down on one of the chairs.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Agent DiNozzo, correct?"

Tony looked up. "That's me, yeah. What?"

"We've got Agent McGee settled in his room. I wanted to ask you about something we found on his person."

"Something being...?"

"Did you look at his back?"

"Are you talking about the scars?" Tony asked. "Because we know about those."

"Well, it _is_ and it isn't. Just, if you could come with me."

"Right."

Tony and Ziva followed the doctor into a room.

"Why is he still asleep?" Ziva asked.

"He is still suffering from aphasia and it was disturbing him too much during his recovery. We gave him a mild sedative to allow him to get the rest he needs. If you wouldn't mind helping?"

"Of course."

The doctor maneuvered Tim's limp body forward and gestured for Ziva to move the gown. She did so and then looked at Tony in surprise.

"Tony..."

"No...no, that's not right. That's _really_ not right. They're in prison, aren't they?"

"They _were_...or at least we were _told_ that," Ziva said.

"We've got to tell Gibbs." He looked again. Tim's back still bore testament to the torture he'd undergone. The scars from the electric shock would never fade, but they had healed. Someone...and Tony wasn't under any delusions about _who_ that someone might be...someone had drawn circles around each one of the scars and drawn dotted lines between them. In the center of his back, there were words written, bold and black in permanent marker: _Connect the dots yet?_

"They obviously wished us to know it was them," Ziva said. "Why else would they do this?"

"I need to tell Gibbs," Tony repeated.

"I was just about to go and tell the others that Agent McGee is sleeping. I can send him here."

"Yeah, do that."

After the doctor laid Tim back down and left, Tony and Ziva looked at each other and then at Tim.

"This was supposed to be _over_!" Ziva said, some of her frustration leaking out.

"I guess it's not. Do you think he knows already?"

"I do not know. He may. He was afraid. He could not tell us at the time."

"What if he still can't?"

Ziva shook her head. "I do not know."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Is Tim okay? Is he awake? Can he talk?" Abby rushed the doctor before he could get a single word out.

"Abigail, let the man speak," Ducky instructed.

"There is something that you need to see. Agent McGee is sleeping in a private room. Your other agents are there. I think you had better see this and then I'll give you all the rundown of what we know...and what we don't."

There was an ominous tone to his voice that gave no comfort to any of them. Nor did they feel any better when the doctor explained that Tim's legs would heal with no foreseeable complications. The writing on Tim's back wasn't even the worst thing they saw. It was simply the final nail in the coffin and made them all certain that the group Tim had been a part of before was now after him...again. Tony and Ziva were annoyed...and afraid at the news that Tim's former handler and her boss had escaped CIA custody, but the worst was what was _not_ being said. The doctor was very carefully _not_ saying anything about Tim's inability to speak.

Finally, Gibbs interrupted, "What about his mind?"

The doctor sighed. "I can't tell you what's wrong."

"What do you mean?" Ducky asked. "Aphasia has a very specific origin."

"Yes, but I can find no medical explanation for the fact that the Broca's area of Tim's brain is not functioning. This is not a case of a malfunction, of a lesion, a stroke, drug use. We have found _nothing_...except that there is _no_ activity in the Broca's area. The apraxia appears to be wearing off, whatever the cause. Perhaps the aphasia will follow the same route...we just don't know. I've sent off the MRI results to a specialist, but...I'm not hopeful that he'll find anything."

"So...what can you do?" Abby asked.

"We can try to restart his brain again. The Broca's area controls our ability to communicate. When it stops working, as it has here, while Agent McGee may think clearly and may have all the physiological ability to speak, there is a disconnect between his thoughts and his mouth, essentially, preventing him from communicating."

"Could he write?"

"Perhaps. It's a possibility. Sometimes, that ability is lost as well. If the apraxia goes away completely, we can try it. Again, I don't know."

"Is there anything you _do_ know?"

"About this? No. It could be simply an hysterical response to whatever happened to him. About his broken legs, the injuries are consistent with a car accident." The doctor sighed again. "I'm sorry. I can't explain something I don't understand myself. We'll do our best, but right now... all I can say is that you'd better hope that Agent McGee can heal himself because there's nothing we can do beyond what we try to do for stroke victims."

He started to leave. At the doorway, he looked back at the seven people standing around Tim's bed. He seemed to feel the need to say something else, but he just shook his head.

"I'm sorry."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The doctor may have been sorry, but he wasn't as sorry as Tim was when he woke up a few hours later.

Tim opened his eyes and looked around. He smiled when he saw everyone there. He opened his mouth to say thanks...but all that came out was a strange mishmash of sounds. He closed his mouth instantly and looked at them in fear. _What's going on? Why can't I speak?_

"Well, I guess that answers my first question," Ducky said.

"McGee, looks like you're speaking in tongues," Tony said, trying to smile.

Tim did not. His eyes darted from one person to the next, looking for an answer to the question he didn't have to be able to actually utter.

"Let's just get the next few questions out of the way right now," Ducky said, still sounding clinical. "Can you move now, Timothy?"

Tim looked at him. He was afraid to try...he was afraid of the answer. He knew he wasn't paralyzed. He could feel his body. Whether or not he'd be able to _move_ it was a question he wasn't sure he wanted to answer at the moment.

"Just try it, Timothy. We should know right away."

Tim just looked at him.

"Raise your right hand, please."

Still, Tim didn't move. No one could tell if he was trying and failing or if he wasn't trying at all.

"McGee!" Gibbs said. "Do as he says!"

Instantly, Tim raised his right hand high above his head. Everyone sighed in relief...including Tim.

Then, Ducky nodded in approval. "Could you wiggle your fingers please?"

Tim wrinkled his nose, but brought his hand down and wiggled.

Tony held up his own hand. "Live long and prosper, Probie."

Tim copied and smiled.

"Do the same with your left hand, please, Timothy."

Tim did with only a momentary pause.

"Good." Ducky hesitated and looked at Gibbs. If Tim couldn't write, which was occasionally a manifestation of aphasia, he would be crushed because that meant that they could only rely on blinks for communication...which were rather limited in their complexity.

Gibbs shrugged. Tim saw that and looked from Ducky to Gibbs with a question in his eyes. He did not try to speak again.

"Okay, Timothy. We want to try one more thing. Since you apparently have your dexterity back, we would like to see if you can write."

Tim looked at him with great concern. The question was as obvious as if he had shouted it. _What if I can't?_

"Let's just see." Ducky got out a pad and a pen. He hand them to Tim who took the objects with obvious trepidation. He looked at Ducky. "Just try writing your name, Timothy," Ducky suggested.

Tim nodded and took the pen. He looked at the page and put the pen to the paper. Then...he stopped. He lifted it away and stared hard at the page as if trying to remember something very difficult. Then, he put the pen to the page again. The pen moved...slowly...hesitantly and Tim began to look even more disturbed as he stared and stared at the page. He took faster and faster breaths. Suddenly, he threw the pen and pad violently across the room and covered his face with his hands. He shook his head and made the noises that had taken the place of language for him. They stopped quickly and Tim just shook his head over and over again without looking up.

Tony bent over and picked up the pad and stared at it with a mounting horror. There were two faint lines on the page, swiggly and not even remotely similar to a letter. Tim couldn't even write his own name. He showed the page to Ziva who looked from the page to Tim. Everyone else looked as horror-stricken as Tim himself did. She tried to think of something, _anything_ that would remove some of the dread from what they were facing at the moment...then, her gaze fell on Abby.

"What about sign language?" she asked softly.

"What?" Tony asked.

Everyone turned toward her.

"Does this aphasia, does it affect the ability to sign...like Abby does?"

Ducky did not look hopeful. "It could. It could not. Abby?"

Tim didn't look up.

Abby reached out and touched Tim gently on the arm. He pulled away. She grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm down.

"Tim! We might as well try, right?"

Tim lifted his head, the tears leaving streaks on his face. He opened his mouth again and then closed it quickly. His hands waved vaguely in the air and then he began to punch one open hand into the other, anger, frustration and fear warring for supremacy. Abby grabbed his hand again. She took his fist and pushed it into a shape.

"This is the letter _a_. Got it?"

Tim wasn't even paying attention. It was still just a fist to him, an expression of his fear. Gibbs could see the desolation in his eyes. What was Tim without his ability to communicate? He lived for words. He was an author. He worked on a computer which required an ability to read. He couldn't do _any_ part of his job without these things. What _could_ he do if he couldn't speak? He needed something to take his mind off that. He reached out and slapped the back of his head.

Tim grabbed his head and stared at Gibbs.

"Pay attention, McGee!" He made the same sign Abby had. "A. This is the letter _a_. Got it?"

Tim stared at Gibbs' fist.

"You do it, McGee."

"Go on," Abby urged. "What's the letter _a_?"

Tim looked at his hands and thought. He brought up his hand and clenched it into a fist, but instead of putting his thumb beside his pointer finger, he laid it across his fingers.

"No, McGee, that's an _s_, not an _a_."

Frustrated, Tim put his hands into his lap.

"No, you can't give up so easily, Tim!" Abby said, angrily.

He folded his arms in silence, looking for the world as if he was being defiant, but everyone knew what it was. Tim was terrified.

"Try it again, McGee," Gibbs said.

Tim didn't move. He stared at the foot of his bed and wouldn't meet anyone's eyes. Gibbs smacked him again. Tim looked up and glared.

"You can't just decide to do nothing, McGee. You _have_ to try. Now, make an _a_."

Tim looked at him for a long moment. Then, he brought up his hand again...

Carefully, he put his hand into a shape mimicking Abby's and Gibbs' fists.

"Yes! That's an _a_, Tim!" Abby shouted. She danced in a little circle. "Okay, now, let's do the _b_." She demonstrated. "Now, you do it."

Tim stared at her hand, trying to fix it into his memory. He was struggling. They could all see it, but it was at least working...sort of. He took a deep breath and tried to force his hand into a shape like Abby had made.

"Close," Abby reached out and closed the space between his fingers. He looked at it in confusion. "That's a _b_. With your fingers separated, it's a four."

Tim looked at his hand and spread his fingers. Then, he slowly brought them back together again. Separate. Together. Separate. Together. He didn't notice when Jenny left and then came back in a few seconds later and whispered in Gibbs' ear. Abby did, but she kept her attention on Tim.

"Okay, Tim. Let's review. Do _a_ and _b_ for me."

Carefully, Tim brought his hand into a fist, the thumb beside his index finger. He paused as if verifying that it was correct. Then, he brought his fingers up. At first, they stayed open, but then he slowly closed the space between them.

"Yes! That's it, Tim! Two down, twenty-four to go!"

Tim smiled, but they could all see the frustration beneath the smile. He was a near genius and now he couldn't even remember the alphabet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: What Is Spoken in Darkness**

"Okay, McGee," Gibbs said, interrupting Abby's lesson, "we have two agents guarding your room. They have a list of people who are most definitely _not_ allowed in and a list of people who _are_. You have any problems..." he faltered. Tim couldn't shout for help. "Push the call button. The nurses have been advised of the situation." _Or they will be as soon as we leave_. "I have a few questions and then Tony, Ziva and I are going to New York."

Tim's eyes widened, and, forgetting he couldn't talk, he began to babble again. He stopped, frustrated again. Two letters did not a vocabulary make.

"McGee, do you know who attacked you?"

Tim thought and then shook his head. They hadn't told him about the CIA involvement yet, although they couldn't put it off forever. He didn't need to worry about that yet.

"Did you see the car that hit you?"

Tim's brow furrowed in confusion.

"You were hit by a car, weren't you?"

There was a hesitant nod.

"You don't remember?"

Tim opened his mouth again, but stopped himself from actually making any sounds. He waved his hands around, indicating fuzziness. This charades was rather frustrating...for all concerned.

"Were you in New York City?"

Tim shook his head.

"Then, where were you?"

Suddenly, Ducky interjected, "Timothy were you at the UN?"

Tim nodded eagerly.

"That's in New York City, Probie," Tony said.

"Actually, Tony, I believe that the UN is on international ground. It is technically not even the United States," Jenny said, grinning. "McGee was just being...overly accurate."

Tim blushed at his gaff.

"Okay..."

"Was it day or night?" Ziva asked.

Tim glared.

"Sorry, McGee. Was it daytime?"

He shook his head.

"So it was night?"

He nodded.

"Were you leaving the UN?"

He thought and then, with one finger made a line to and from himself. Everyone looked at him without comprehension. Tim sighed in frustration and embarrassment. Opening his eyes wide, he repeated the action, more forcefully. That didn't seem to help. He drew a line away from himself and then mimed eating. Then, he drew a line back.

"Dinner break!" Tony exclaimed.

Tim nodded and smiled.

"Yes! I love charades!"

Tim looked down at his lap and laughed, but the laughter became a small sob. He wiped away the tears and looked up again. His eyes wide, asking if there were any more questions.

"Did you talk to anyone outside of the UN group?"

Tim waggled one hand back and forth.

"No one significant?"

Tim nodded.

"Okay, that's enough for now. We'll call...Abby or Ducky...or Jenny if we need to ask you any more questions."

Tony and Ziva gave him a last supportive glance and then followed Gibbs out of the room. Jenny trailed them soon after. Ducky and Jimmy stayed and talked a bit, but then they also left. Only Abby stayed...to continue the lesson.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Okay, Tim. Let's see how many more letters we can get through," she said, her voice falsely perky. It had been disheartening for Tim to realize how difficult it was to hold onto the letters she was showing him. He could have sworn that he'd learned the letters once before...a long time ago, but along with words, letters, the written word, they seemed to have oozed out of his head. They were only on _J_ after an hour of work. Tim was feeling more and more frustrated.

_I know what I want to say! Why can't I just _say_ it?_ he shouted in his head. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair that he had lost his ability to communicate. Even if he somehow managed to learn and retain the letters of the alphabet once more, that was a long way from being able to sign. He knew enough about ASL to know that they didn't use fingerspelling for regular communication.

"Gah!" he shouted. It was the first time he was intentionally _not_ making a real word. He rammed the heels of his palms against his forehead and screwed his eyes shut. _I am so _sick_ of this!_

"Tim! What's wrong?"

_What's wrong? Abby, I can't even begin to _tell_ you what's wrong. _That's_ what's wrong,_ Tim ranted in his head.

"Hey! Calm down! We'll figure it out, Tim. We will. Do you want to...read or something? Take a break?"

That question, innocent and well-meaning though it was, suddenly brought clear another aspect of the horror that was this waking world. Tim knew there would be an exit sign in green somewhere in the room. He knew that there were words on the monitor to his right. He knew that because he'd been in hospitals before...but...hesitantly, he looked over at the monitor. He looked around for the green exit sign. There it was. He knew that it _must_ say exit because that's what exit signs said...but he couldn't read it. He looked at the monitor again. He knew those were letters making up words. He knew it, but only because he had been able to read in the past. He couldn't read what the words said.

_I can't read. I can't read. I can't write. I can't speak._ Tim felt the all-too-familiar panic crashing over him like waves in the ocean...like being caught in the storm surge of a hurricane. It threatened to overwhelm and drown him. _I can't read! I can't speak! I can't write! No!_ Unconsciously, he began to gabble again. Abby, not privy to his thoughts, only saw him becoming more and more disturbed by...something. He couldn't explain it to her and that only added to his panic. He looked up at her, his mouth moving, his mind racing at a million miles a minute. _I can't tell anyone what happened. I can't tell them what I saw. I can't do anything at all. I can't... I can't..._

Lost in the grip of a full-blown panic attack, Abby's voice faded into the background as Tim began to hyperventilate. His heart rate surged and he felt as thought he was going to pass out. _I'm dying! ...and I can't tell anyone, _he thought fearfully. _Help! Help!_ He thought he might just throw up. The meaningless gabble faded away beneath the onslaught of wave upon wave of pure fear. His mind whirled and the words faded even there until all that was left was the sheer horror of the situation. Tim felt out of control. He was spiraling away from rational thought and toward insanity. He remembered how that had felt when it was a drug taking his reason away from him. Now, he was just stuck. He couldn't get away. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. Even breathing felt nearly impossible.

Then, through the ringing in his ears, he heard a voice. "Tim, breathe. Slowly. You're just fine. You're not in any danger." A bag was over his mouth and his already-noisy breathing became magnified as the bag inflated and deflated rapidly. "Breathe through the nose. Slow. Slow deep breath. You're okay. You're just having a panic attack. That's completely normal. You're not dying. The feeling will pass. Just keep breathing. Slowly. Slowly."

Tim tried. He really did try to listen to the voice, but his mind insisted that things were very serious, that if he didn't speak now, he'd never get a chance to, that his entire body was shutting down, that he was actually dying.

"Just breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out." The voice persisted and slowly, ever so slowly, his mind began to listen and admit that maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe he could get through it. "Don't try to fight it. Don't try to speak. Just relax. Just breathe. That's it. Breathe in. Breathe out."

Tim obeyed. Breathe in. Breathe out. His heart rate dropped. Rational thought began to reassert itself in his head. The bag was removed from over his mouth.

"Better?" the voice asked.

Tim nodded and looked up. There was a nurse leaning over him. Abby was hovering anxiously behind her. Tim looked down at his hands...there was only one way he could communicate now...but he couldn't do much yet. He looked up at Abby and took a deep breath. Slowly, he lifted a shaking hand and made a fist. ..._A...B...C...D...E...F...G... ...G...H... ... ... I... J..._

Abby began to cry. "Good, Tim. Good job."

Tim nodded and then he grabbed her hand and pulled her around the nurse. _Come on, Abby. Show me more. I think I'll need it._ None of the words could be said; so Tim shaped her hand into an _I_ and then forced it into a _J_. Then, he looked at her, his eyes wide, asking for the next letter.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The ride to New York was very quiet. Every so often, someone would try to start a conversation, but it didn't last. Gibbs dropped Ziva and Tony off at Tim's hotel. Then, he drove over to the UN.

He walked in and found Lisa Daley's office. He knocked first, but he didn't wait for admittance.

A group of three people were sitting, talking. Lisa Daley was sitting behind a desk. She looked up in annoyance when Gibbs entered.

"Lisa Daley?"

"Yes? That's the name on the door," she said, tersely.

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS."

"Oh, another NCIS agent. I hope you're better about attending meetings than your counterpart."

"Actually, no, I'm worse. I need to speak with you."

"Why? To offer an apology?"

"No, to ask you where you were when Agent McGee was getting hit by a car and stuffed in a body bag."

Her eyes widened and everyone else stopped talking.

"Agent McGee is dead?"

"No."

"But you said he was..." Her face went pale.

"I said he was stuffed in a body bag. I didn't say he was dead when that happened."

"_Allah birhama," _one of the men murmured. "Is he all right?"

"Too soon to tell. I'm investigating what happened to him."

Lisa stood up. "Of course." She blushed slightly. "I feel like such a jerk for assuming he was just not coming. These are the other leading members of the American delegation. We have a general meeting in a few hours. This is Khalid el-Riffaey of the AMC," she said, pointing to the man who had spoken. "And this is Sargeant Aaron Grant from Homeland Security. This is..."

Gibbs blinked and looked at the third member. "Kristine Blumell?"

"No. This is Tara Browning, of the CIA."

Gibbs smiled as did...Tara. "My mistake." He shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You as well, Agent Gibbs."

"Do you want to speak to us all now or would you prefer to do it separately?" Lisa asked.

Gibbs looked from Tara back to Lisa. "Together is fine. I just need to know when you last saw Agent McGee."

Lisa looked at the others. "Let's see. It would have been nearly two days ago, just before the dinner break. Right?"

Khalid nodded and smiled. "Yes. He told me that he wanted to get something other than reception food. I told him that there were restaurants on the plaza, but I think he just wanted to get away from all of us."

"In what way?"

"We had been cooped up together all day, Agent Gibbs. A bunch of strangers, talking about things we all consider important for which we all have different solutions...it is a recipe for frayed tempers. Agent McGee kept his tongue, but he wished for some time alone, I think. He asked me for recommendations."

"What did you tell him?"

"I suggested a Chinese restaurant called Shih Lee, Inc."

"Do you know if he went there?"

"I believe he did. He sounded enthusiastic, although I suppose it could just be so that he didn't hurt my feelings," Khalid said, grinning.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"Did anyone have a problem with him at these meetings?" Gibbs asked. He already knew who he needed to speak to, but he didn't want to cast suspicion on her.

"No," Sargeant Grant said firmly. "Agent McGee was probably the least annoying member of the U.S. delegation. I was ready to throw in the towel after an hour, but he just sat there taking notes, raising his hand every so often."

"Did he seem all right to you?"

"Well, I didn't know him before this, but he did seem..." Grant looked around. "...nervous?"

"Yes, I agree," Lisa said. "He was jumpy, but I just put that to the fact that this was such a big meeting. Some people get overwhelmed the first time they're a part of a UN meeting..." she rolled her eyes, "...until they realize that it's just a bunch of meetings with boredom and bureaucracy."

"Khalid was the first person to actually speak to him, I think," Tara said.

"Yes, I probably was," Khalid said and actually looked embarrassed.

"What is it?" Gibbs asked.

"I recognized him."

"From what? ...oh."

"Yes, I will admit to reading it," Khalid said. "I'm a big fan. I had to see if I was right. Once we got past his huge embarrassment at being recognized, we chatted quite amiably. He seemed more relaxed after that and he even made a few suggestions."

Lisa nodded. "I asked him to come to the next leader meeting in my office. That was supposed to be yesterday morning. He never came...and he didn't come to the general meeting either. At least, I didn't see him."

"I didn't either. I hadn't seen him since he asked me for a restaurant," Khalid agreed.

"Thank you. Anything else you think of, please call me," Gibbs said, handing out cards to them all. Then, he shook everyone's hands and he left. As he walked down the hall, he began to count under his breath. _10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4..._

"Agent Gibbs!"

Gibbs turned around. "Tara Browning?" he asked, unable to keep the loathing out of his voice.

She smiled in tacit acknowledgment and shrugged. "That's as good a name as any."

"What are you doing here?"

"Same thing your Agent McGee was. I was chosen by my agency to represent them at this incredibly exciting set of meetings."

"Why you?"

"I'm still under investigation for my practices in the field...and well, some other classified things."

"Did McGee recognize you?"

"Of course, he did. I think he wanted to turn around and run as soon as I walked in. He didn't though."

"Did you talk to him at all?"

"No."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, Agent Gibbs. I figured that was why he hadn't come to the meeting. He was afraid of being in the same room with me. However, I was hardly going to bring up our past history in front of the others."

"Did you know that McGee's former employers escaped?"

She still wasn't as good as Griffen at hiding her emotions. There was the faintest flicker. It was fear. "Yes, I know. You think it was them? You think that they attacked Agent McGee?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why? What is their motivation? Why would they risk everything just to get revenge? There must be a reason beyond that, motivated by revenge, yes, but that can't be all."

"Why do you say that?"

"These people operated under the radar for years, Agent Gibbs. Previous CIA directors knew vaguely of their existence and were content to allow them to do their business so long as they didn't draw attention to themselves...and they didn't. These are the same people you are saying attacked Agent McGee. If that is the case, and I'm not saying that's wrong, they must have more than one reason for it."

"I think you might be giving them values they don't have."

"Possible. I certainly am not infallible."

"No kidding." Gibbs turned and began to walk away.

"Agent Gibbs?"

He stopped and looked back, but didn't fully turn.

"Is Agent McGee all right?"

"No." Then, he walked away.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tony held out the keycard. He looked at Ziva who nodded, her gun out. He swiped it and threw the door open. Silently, the two of them went into the room, clearing it. It didn't take long. It was a small room.

"Clear!" Ziva called from the bathroom.

"Clear," Tony agreed from the window.

"It does not look as though anyone has been here."

"I know, but we may as well check it out anyway."

"Yes." Ziva walked out of the bathroom. She walked to the closet and pulled it open. "He should have killed them. _We_ should have killed them," she said softly.

"What was that?" Tony asked. He was going through Tim's luggage...not that there was much there. Tim hadn't been coming for more than a week. He had packed clothes, but not even much in the way of entertainment. He had planned on being in meetings all day long.

"I said that we should have _killed_ them!" Ziva declared, slamming the closet door shut. "They did not deserve to merely be arrested. And now look what they have done! Why?"

"I don't know, Ziva," Tony said, looking down at the shirt in his hands. It was one of Tim's MIT shirts. They teased him about bringing up MIT so often. It was easy to do but... _Tim can't even spell MIT anymore. _Tony swallowed and looked at Ziva, an expression of determination on his face. "I don't know, but we'll be sure to ask them when we find them."

Ziva nodded. They continued to process the room in silence, imagining what they'd do to the people who had stolen Tim's ability to speak.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: It Shall Be Heard in Light**

"Tim, are you sure you don't want to take a break? We can finish the alphabet tomorrow," Abby said, not bothering to hide her yawn.

Tim shook his head firmly. The expression on his face was screaming _Please!_ and Abby couldn't ignore it, not after his panic attack from his realization that he was completely cut off from everyone. She didn't know what she'd do if she was trapped inside _her_ head. She talked all the time. Tim talked less, but he still talked...and more importantly, he read and wrote. If he couldn't do that, what was his outlet? She was afraid that he might not be able to spell anything, even with the fingerspelling, but she wanted to start with the basics. Then, she'd move on to actual signs. He needed to be able to do at least _try_ something, and the signs were working...mostly. It was painfully difficult to watch him carefully shape his hands into each letter. He would have had this memorized in minutes normally. She could tell that it frustrated him as well. This wasn't a matter of a loss of intelligence, just of a physical ability...and for someone as intelligent as Tim was, to be held back by some unknown malfunction was nothing short of agonizing. There had been no change in his ability to speak. He tried not to look at anything with words on it. She could tell that not being able to read still pained him.

Tim grabbed her hand and tried to put it into the shape of a _T_, the last letter she had shown him. He didn't even seem to realize that he could spell his name now. The letters were just letters. He knew them, but only like people who couldn't read music knew what notes were. They might be able to sing, but they didn't correlate the notes on the page with the sounds they made.

"Okay, okay, Tim. We'll finish it," Abby said, trying to smile. "_U_ is next."

Tim furrowed his brow and pointed at himself. _Me?_

"No, silly. The letter."

Tim flushed.

She smiled and brought her index finger and birdie fingers together, pointing straight up. "_U_, the letter. Now, you try it."

Tim nodded and stopped.

"Make the _U_, Tim."

Tim concentrated and then, made the same sign.

"Good!"

Tim nodded and then, he began with _A_ and made all the letters up to _U_. She noticed how often he had to pause and think about it, forcing his mind to connect a shape in his hands with the building blocks of language. It was terrible to see, but she didn't show it. When he finished, he looked at her again.

"Okay, next is _V_. It's just like the _U_, but the fingers are separated. Like this." She showed him. "_U_. _V_."

He copied her. Then, again, he made all the signs of the alphabet. It didn't seem to be any easier, but she hoped he'd still remember them all in the morning. It took another hour to finish the whole alphabet, and Tim seemed tired by the end of it.

"Okay, Tim. That's it for today. I'll give you a pop quiz in the morning."

Tim tried to smile at her, but it faded quickly. He grabbed her hand and held it tightly, looking at her, pleading with his eyes.

"If you're asking me when you'll be cured, I don't know, Tim. I hope soon, but...we don't know what happened. Only you do...and you can't tell us," she said and then covered her mouth with her hand when Tim leaned back as if stung. "Oh, Tim, I'm sorry. It's not your fault!" She hugged him tightly. "We'll figure it out! We'll find the people who did this and we'll figure out what happened! We _will_! I promise!"

Tim nodded, but the look on his face was not hopeful.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

After Abby left, Tim looked at his hands again. He wasn't sure that they would be the path to actual communication that Abby acted like they were. There were too many variables...and without someone there to _explain_ everything to him, he couldn't find out on his own...because he couldn't read. That loss hurt almost more than being unable to speak.

_What am I going to do...what if I never get any of it back?_ Tim asked himself. He asked himself because he couldn't ask anyone else. _I can't think like that...if I do, I'll drive myself crazy._ He looked at his legs, slightly elevated, firmly encased in casts. It was strange how that physical injury had almost faded to unimportance in light of how badly damaged his brain seemed to be...

Then, there was a sudden flash of memory...

_Tim stared fearfully into the headlights as they approached. He couldn't move out of the way. He heard the laughter it. It wasn't an accident. It was deliberate. He felt the debilitating pain as his bones broke. He screamed in agony and lay on the ground, bathed in the light of the headlights. The doors opened. He couldn't see who was standing there. The lights were too bright... the light..._

Tim shook the memory away. He hadn't been afraid of the light for weeks. Was that a real memory? Or was it a dream? He thought back to earlier in the day...what was it that had been different? Then, he remembered...Kristine.

Flash...

"_Agent McGee!"_

_He'd recognize that voice anywhere...and he had no desire to hear it. He kept walking._

"_Agent McGee, I need to talk to you!"_

_He stopped. "No."_

"_No?" She seemed surprised._

"_No. I have nothing to say to you and I don't want to hear anything _you_ have to say."_

"_Even if it's a warning?"_

_Tim turned around. "You...you ruined my life! You and those other...people pretending to be actual human beings. I don't care if you're going to save me from a bullet in the next five seconds! I'd rather die than have to be in the same room with you ever again."_

_He walked away. After that, he was aware of her. She always seemed to be hovering, not actually close to him, but near enough that he could see her. It was as though she was stalking him...and it made him afraid as he hadn't been in months. He didn't want to feel that again._

"_Hey, Khalid!"_

"_Your pronunciation is better, Tim."_

"_I'm practicing."_

"_Keep it up."_

_Tim grinned and tried not to notice Kristine...or rather Tara hovering. "I'm sick of eating this catered stuff they keep bringing. Do you know of any good restaurants nearby?"_

"_There are some on the plaza..."_

"_No, I mean out in the city."_

"_Do you like Chinese food?"_

"_Sure."_

"_Well, Shih Lee, Inc. is only a couple of blocks from here. It has good food."_

"_That's sounds great. Thanks! I'll be back after." Tim ran out of the building, across the street and down the block. Tara didn't follow. Tim turned a corner and..._

There it was. That strange blank space in his memory. It jumped from him getting to the restaurant to the headlights and then to the body bag. He couldn't remember what had happened...and he couldn't tell anyone that he couldn't remember or where his memory broke off or what had happened in the parts he _did_ remember. How could they guess accurately? He sighed.He looked at his hands again and began to copy the letters Abby was making with her hands. Twenty-six letters. He knew that. He knew how to think...he thought in words, but...but...as he finished the letters, he realized that they were just shapes. He knew that they _should_ be part of what created words and the words made language...but...

_I can't spell! They don't mean anything! I know they should, but they don't!_ Tim looked around the room. He felt like a prisoner, but it wasn't because of the room. It wasn't because he couldn't walk. It was because everything that made him who he was...it was all stuck inside him. He couldn't get it out. He closed his eyes and tried to find an escape in sleep.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Director Shephard, when will I be able to speak with Agent McGee?"

"You won't," Jenny said.

"Why not?"

"Because Agent McGee is not speaking to _anyone_ at the moment. He can't speak."

As usual, Jenny couldn't tell how Director Carew took that news. He never showed surprise, but she couldn't be sure that it was because he already knew what she was telling him or if it was just because he was such an expert at hiding his emotions.

"And you have no idea why?"

"The doctors can't tell us anything. He can't speak, read or write. He is only able to communicate by blinking at the moment. We are trying to teach him sign language, but we have yet to know whether or not that will work."

"I would like to speak to him in any case."

"No."

The director of the CIA raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment.

"If you want to speak to Agent McGee, Director, you will have to wait until such time as Agent McGee himself tells me, in words, that he is willing. Otherwise, my answer is no."

"Very well. If you change your mind..."

"I won't."

He smiled. As usual, Jenny got the feeling that he enjoyed his position and the perception of him as being a colossal jerk without regard for human life so long as he achieved his goals. She wondered if he was actually a nice person somewhere inside..._deep_ inside.

"As always, a pleasure, Director Shephard."

"I wish I could say the same."

"But alas..." he said, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat's. Then, he signed off.

"He makes my skin crawl," one of the techs commented. "Like snakes."

Jenny grinned. "Not all snakes are poisonous, you know."

The tech shivered. "Doesn't matter. They all move the same way. I hate the way they slither."

Jenny nodded. "Indeed." Then, she left.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was nearly two a.m. by the time Tony, Ziva and Gibbs got back to the Yard. They were discouraged. Nothing in Tim's hotel room. Nothing from the other people at the UN. He had made it to the restaurant, but no one remembered seeing him with anyone. He hadn't acted strangely, except for a being a bit nervous. No one on the streets remembered seeing a car accident. There had been no report filed with anyone answering to Tim's description.

The nervousness that everyone had reported was understandable. After living for two months under constant surveillance, being forced to assist people who were in a position to kill not only him but everyone he loved, it made perfect sense that Tim was nervous about being gone from the safety he felt around his friends. His family had never known about it. What he had done was classified. The only people who knew were the people in NCIS and the CIA. It had taken the combined efforts of Ziva, Tony, Abby, and even occasionally Gibbs and Ducky and Jimmy to get Tim to go places without worrying about them showing up. The mask he had so carefully cultivated was mostly gone...mostly. They all still saw it occasionally. The last time was when Jenny had assigned Tim to join the UN group. She had cleared it with Gibbs first, but Tim, while interested in being involved in something so potentially important, had been nervous about it.

Two weeks before he left, Tony and Ziva had taken it upon themselves to make sure that he was ready to go. They colluded to find him at odd times and force him to go places he'd never been. Tim had been resistant, but he also recognized what they were doing and had made every effort to go along with them.

Now...now, they had found in the worst way that Tim wasn't safe yet. All their efforts to make him feel safe had been the building of a lie. He wasn't safe. Maybe he never would be.

"What now, Boss?"

"Go home. Sleep on it."

"Why was Kristine..."

"Tara."

"Fine, then, _Tara_. Why was she there?" Ziva asked. "I do not believe it was a coincidence."

"Neither do I. If you think we could get any answers out of the CIA, you're welcome to ask."

"I could."

"Legally?" Tony asked.

"No."

They fell silent. The question they all wanted to ask...no one asked. Instead, they left.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim couldn't sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he flashed to the approaching headlights...and then back to the light used to torture him while he suffered under the influence of atropine. He still remembered the crazed visions, the pain...and above all the light that had covered him at all times. He had looked at his chest when no one was around. There was writing there. He couldn't read it. He wondered what it said.

He made a fist. _A. Why is that an _A_? Why is it not an _S_ instead? What makes these letters? How do I use them?_

Tim couldn't decide whether he was angry or depressed about what was going on. He wanted to _know_ why this was happening. Determined now, he pushed the call button and waited. He didn't care that it was three in the morning. He didn't care that it would be inconvenient. At this point, all he wanted was _something_ to explain to him what was going on.

The door opened and the same nurse that had talked him out of his panic attack earlier.

"What's wrong, Agent McGee?" she asked. "Do you need something?"

Tim nodded and gestured for her to come closer.

"What is it?"

When she came closer, he grabbed her hand and brought it to his own head. _What's going on in here?_

"You don't have a fever, Agent McGee."

Tim sighed and tried not to get angry. He shook his head and thumped his temple with his own hands and then, he hit his lips and his throat.

She sighed. "You want to know why you can't talk?"

He nodded.

"Agent McGee..."

Tim shook his head. _No, no evasions. Tell me._

"Couldn't this wait?"

Tim shook his head again.

"All right. You're suffering from something resembling Broca's aphasia, but not exactly. From what we can tell, you are unable to speak, read, and write. Is that correct?"

A single nod.

"But you appear to have no trouble understanding what is said. Our problem is that we cannot determine what is causing the aphasia. There is nothing that we can find that would create such a profound loss of ability as you are showing. Your inability to speak is extreme because most Broca's aphasia sufferers can at least make a few words. You cannot at all so far as we can tell. No one can say what is wrong with you. It is possible that this is a type of psychosomatic disorder, some sort of hysterical reaction to what happened, and that there is really nothing wrong."

Tim recoiled from that and shook his head. _If I _could_ speak, don't you think I _would_?_ he said in his head. What did _she_ know about how he felt? No one could because he couldn't tell them. He was stuck in his head.

He gestured for her to leave.

"Are you sure, Agent McGee?"

He pointed furiously again. She gave him a sympathetic look and left. As soon as the door closed, hot tears poured down his cheeks and he sobbed. He had never felt so alone as he did at that moment.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: A Time to Keep Silence**

It soon became obvious that, for now at least, the fingerspelling was a waste of time. Although he remembered the alphabet, Tim couldn't process the way that the letters became words. He became frustrated and looked as though he wanted throw things again. He refused to look at anyone when they came. He covered his ears and since he couldn't talk anyway, it was not like the conversation would be very exciting. It had only been a few days, but Tim was already hitting his tolerance threshold for being stuck in his head. The doctors tried sending in a therapist, but Tim refused to look at her. He would not even try. The only thing he would do was make the letters and try to understand _why_ they were letters. There were so many things that he needed to tell Gibbs and the others, but he couldn't, not if he couldn't find a way to communicate. He couldn't start with making the sounds of the alphabet...because that didn't make any sense to him anyway, it would take too long, and it only frustrated him more because he_ knew_ they should make sense.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Gibbs?"

"What, Abby?" Gibbs looked up from his computer. They still hadn't found anything and the team was swiftly becoming more and more annoyed at their lack of progress.

"I need your help."

"What for?"

"To make Tim try. I went to see if I teach him some signs, you know, to see if he could use them instead of the letters."

"What happened?"

"He closed his eyes and wouldn't look. I couldn't do anything to make him watch. He's so mad, Gibbs. I think he's mad at himself because he can't help. I think he knows things, but he can't tell us what they are."

Gibbs looked at his notes. He wasn't getting anywhere himself.

"Okay, Abbs. Let's go."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The door was slightly ajar when they reached the hospital. Gibbs gestured for Abby to stay silent and he looked inside. Tim was sitting up, looking at his hands. He made the signs for the letters over and over again, first with his right hand, then with his left. He was trying to understand what they meant. ...and it was obvious that he didn't. He currently had his hand in the shape of an _M_. He was looking at it, feeling the position of his fingers, turning his hand around, trying to see if it made more sense from another angle. It didn't.

He lost patience and tucked his hands under his arms, hiding his failure.

_That's my cue,_ Gibbs decided. He slammed the door open, startling Tim into looking up.

"McGee, what do you think you're doing?" Gibbs asked, signing as he spoke.

Tim didn't answer, of course, but he closed his eyes.

Gibbs walked over and slapped his head. "No," he said, signing the word. "No, McGee. I won't let you hide. I don't care if it takes you years. I don't care if it's words or if it's signs. You are _going_ to relearn something. I'm not going to let you close your eyes and drive yourself crazy. Got that?"

Tim didn't answer. He appeared mesmerized by Gibbs' flying hands.

"I said, do you got that?" Gibbs slapped his head again.

Tim nodded.

"Good." Gibbs sat down and gestured for Abby to sit as well. "Now, you need to be able to ask and answer questions. So, forget the fingerspelling for now. It's obviously not working."

Tim rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Pay attention. These are the basic questions: What, where, when, who, why, and how," he said, signing them quickly. Tim's eyes glazed over.

"Okay, pause for a moment," Gibbs said. He looked at Abby and signed to her. _Tell him how to sign _again_._

She nodded. "Tim, if you need us to repeat anything, do this." She made the sign for _again_. She didn't tell him what it meant. "Can you do that?"

Tim looked at her hand as she repeated the motion. Then, he did it.

"Yes! If you get lost while we're teaching, just tell us to do it again, by making that sign, okay?"

Tim nodded. Then, Gibbs took over again.

"What," Gibbs said. He pointed to Abby. She spelled it silently. Tim watched. Then, he looked at Gibbs again. "What." He made the sign. "Now, you do it."

Tim shook his hand like Gibbs had, but he didn't get it.

"This is a question, McGee. It's a question you are no doubt asking yourself. What is going on?" He signed it. "You see?"

Tim just stared, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Abby leaned over. "What do you do if you need him to repeat it, Tim?"

Tim made the sign.

Patiently, Gibbs repeated. "What." He made the sign. Over and over. He made Tim repeat it over and over. Then, he moved on to the next question...and the next...and the next. Over the course of the next two hours, he covered basic questions, some of the essentials of ASL He could tell that Tim didn't understand how to use them, but he had to have the signs in his head before he could even _try_ to use them.

"A lot of the signs you can think of as pictures," Gibbs explained, signing all the while. "Some of them aren't, but you can convey a lot of meaning by using the sign in the appropriate place and with the appropriate facial expression."

Tim signed, _Again._

Gibbs chuckled. Tim was pretty much using it to mean _I don't get it._ That was fine.

"Okay, Tim, here's an example," Abby said. "This means _pain_." She pointed her index fingers at each other and twisted them in the opposite directions. "If you have a headache..." she trailed off and looked at Tim. She could almost see the wheels turning as he tried figure out what she meant. They didn't help him.

Trembling, Tim made the sign for _again_.

Abby smiled and signed _pain_. She didn't speak.

Tim signed _pain_. He looked at it. Slowly, he lifted his hands to his head and made the sign again.

"Yes! Yes! Exactly!" Abby made the ASL sign for applause and danced. "You show where you have pain by signing it there or by pointing to the place!"

Tim smiled, but while he did understand that part, there was nothing that worked intuitively for him. Every piece that fell into place in ASL was an hour's work by itself, and he didn't understand the more abstract signs...like questions. He just couldn't understand how to use them.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Director Carew sat at his desk, contemplating his next move. There was really only one choice...but it just happened to be the choice he wanted to make anyway. It was nice when life worked out like that. He looked at the person sitting across from him.

"Well?"

Carew shrugged without concern. "Director Shephard's stance is not unexpected...actually, it makes the game more fun. However, it does mean more work for you." He straightened. "Is everything ready?"

"Always."

"Good. We should be on track. Get in contact with your...associate and let him know, will you?"

"Of course. Are you sure you want to do the first part on your own?"

"Definitely."

"But, sir, if something goes wrong..."

"More fun for me," Carew said. "I get stuck behind this desk far too often. " He smiled enigmatically. "Besides, Agent McGee and I _really_ need to have a chat."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee?" Jimmy nervously poked his head through the doorway. Tim was staring dully out the window. He shifted his eyes to Jimmy briefly and sighed. "You mind if I come in?"

Tim shook his head. Well, that wasn't particularly effusive, but Jimmy figured it was better than being told to leave...whether verbally or not. He came all the way into the room and sat down by the bed. Tim didn't look away from the window.

"Are you doing all right?" he asked and then flushed when Tim gave him an angry look. "Sorry, dumb question."

Tim nodded and raised his eyebrows. _No kidding._

"Yeah, sorry about that. Have they told you about what's wrong?"

Tim lifted his hand and scrunched his index finger and thumb together.

"Do you want to know more...like, why they can't figure out what's wrong?"

Tim looked at him for a long time. Jimmy wondered what he was thinking. He wondered what it was like for Tim. It was obvious that he hadn't lost any of his intelligence, his personality...and now, he was stuck, unable to tell anyone anything whether important or trivial. He could be weighing the benefits of knowing details or he could just be wishing that Jimmy would go away. Jimmy had no idea. Then, he nodded.

"Okay. The problem is that your aphasia is too profound."

Tim squinted at him.

"Um...well, let's see. Normally, aphasia is caused by some sort of traumatic brain injury, which you haven't suffered. Right?"

Tim shrugged and looked out the window again.

"Right, okay. So, we'll have to trust the doctors when they say that you haven't."

Tim rolled his eyes.

"Yes, well, we work with what we have."

Tim chuckled suddenly. He turned back to Jimmy and grabbed his hand and patted it. He nodded earnestly. Jimmy didn't know what was so funny, and he didn't know what Tim was trying to say.

"So...uh, you haven't suffered any brain injury, but your Broca's area seems to be completely turned off...but you have no problems with comprehension, even with complex thoughts."

Tim nodded in agreement.

"Well, with Broca's aphasia, which is closest to what you're suffering, there's often some difficulty in comprehending complex syntactic structure. Usually, you'd be able to say _something_, even if just content words, but you can't. You can't read, write, speak. It's like you somehow shut down everything that could make you able to communicate. All the synaptic pathways leading to and from your Broca's area are working. There aren't any blood clots or broken connections. From what I can tell, your doctors haven't ever seen a case of aphasia like this and that's why they can't explain it. It's too perfectly debilitating, if that makes any sense." Jimmy paused. "Does it?"

Tim nodded.

"None of the other types of aphasia work either. It's all just such a unique case."

Tim didn't answer, of course, but he sighed and drew his hand across his face. His hand slowly fell until it reached his mouth. He left it there, covering the part of him that wasn't working.

"It might still go away, you know. If they don't know what caused it, they don't know what might make it heal."

Tim shook his head slightly and let his hand fall to his lap. He met Jimmy's eyes and then, he seemed to steel himself. He opened his mouth and began to babble. He continued for a few of the longest seconds Jimmy had ever experienced and then he stopped.

To Jimmy's surprise, Tim's mouth then quirked in a sad half-smile. He couldn't read Tim's mind, but he could tell what he was thinking...in essence, at least.

_Does it look like it's going away, Jimmy?_

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The unofficial campfire had been expanded to include everyone who was overly concerned about Tim. It was ten p.m. No one wanted to leave NCIS yet because they hadn't made any progress yet. It was one week since Ducky had opened the body bag. One week since Tim's life had been turned upside down by the CIA...again. Jenny had tried numerous times to get more information from them, but they were being mum on the matter. Abby had tried to get in, but she just wasn't as skilled as Tim was in that regard. Besides, they had completely revamped their servers since Tim had hacked them. Even he would have had more of a problem with it.

They had all dropped in on Tim frequently, but the visits were painful because Tim couldn't talk to them. There was only so much they could say with no input...and Tim's attempts at actually communicating were embarrassing both for him and for them. ...so, most of the visits were short.

"How are the sign lessons going?" Tony asked, without much hope.

Abby sighed. "Not so good. It's only been a week, but Tim's getting so frustrated. He can understand the basic things, but...when I try to move on to the more complex signs, he just doesn't get it...and it bugs him. A lot. I talked to his speech therapist and she said that he won't even try."

"Why not?" Ziva asked.

"Because it's embarrassing. She said that attitude isn't surprising, but he..." Abby sighed. "...he's so much worse than anyone that she's worked with before...she doesn't know if he'll ever be able to talk again."

"Didn't they do another MRI?" Tony asked. "I thought that it showed some activity."

"So did they," Ducky said. "They were wrong. When they looked more closely, it was not from the Broca's area."

"The weird thing is that _only_ the Broca's area has been affected," Jimmy piped up unexpectedly. "Most people who get Broca's aphasia are also paralyzed on the right side of their bodies, but McGee isn't. He has full motor function and..." Jimmy looked around at everyone staring at him. "Well, I was telling him about it yesterday and...uh...it's just...it doesn't make sense medically-speaking."

"Very true, Mr. Palmer," Ducky said. "That's why the doctors are hoping it's psychosomatic."

"But?" Jenny asked.

"But, I doubt it. I think we just don't know...and may never know what caused Timothy to short circuit. Any progress with the pictures?"

Jenny smiled ruefully. "Not much. I think he has some memory gaps which isn't at all surprising considering the circumstances. As near as I can tell, he remembers going to the restaurant and then getting hit by the car...but he can't tell me what anyone looks like. He confirmed that there were people there and that he heard them speak, but he can't tell me any more than that. Obviously, he can't tell me what they said. I left the sketch pad with him in case he remembers anything more, but I get the sense that he's more likely to throw it than he is to draw in it."

"Well, Gibbs and I taught him some swear words. Maybe he'll start using those when he gets mad," Abby said, grinning suddenly.

"You think he gets them?" Tony asked.

"Try asking him a question he can't answer and see, Tony," Abby said.

"I think we need to tell him who is behind this," Ziva said. Before anyone could protest, she continued, "He would _want_ to know. It might frighten him, but remember how much strength he showed before. Perhaps it would help him focus his anger on those deserving of it...rather than on himself."

"After all the crap he's gone through trying to get over those people, you think he wants to know that they're after him again?" Tony asked incredulously.

"What is to be gained by lying to him?" Ziva asked in return, her face deadly serious. "We told him he was safe. He was not, and now look at what has happened."

No one could say anything to that.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim tossed and turned...mentally at least. Able-bodied he might be, but he couldn't physically toss and turn with his legs in casts. He wasn't sleeping much. His mind was always racing faster than he could keep pace with it. He'd never had this problem before. He wasn't sure why this was such a problem. He was thinking. He was trying to learn things...unwillingly, yes, but he was still trying. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't think he could get out of this and he'd have to live the rest of his life trapped inside his own mind. That was too close to being crazy.

He tried to find a comfortable position that didn't actually involve moving to a different position. It had been nice of Jimmy to come and try to explain things to him. No one else had taken the time to do that.

_I hate this!_

Tim closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He'd been laying quietly for about ten minutes when he thought he heard something out in the hallway. It was so soft that he dismissed it. Then...his door opened silently and someone most definitely came into the room. It was silent, but the presence was there. Tim could feel it walking closer. ...and closer. If it was someone he knew...and liked, they would have said something. If it was one of the guards, they would have announced themselves upon entering the room.

_Who is it? What are they going to do to me?_

Tim tried not to stiffen, but he couldn't fight his body's fear response.

"I know you're awake, Agent McGee."

The light suddenly blazed bright, illuminating the cold, empty smiling face of CIA Director, Levi Carew.

"You're a relatively hard man to get to, Agent McGee. We have some things to discuss."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: A Time to Speak**

Tim froze for just a moment, his eyes trying to adjust to the light, his mind trying to think beyond the light that still made him tremble with fear. Then, his mind kicked into gear once more and he reached out for the call button, for someone who could come and get rid of this monster standing over him. He might be in the form of a man, but Tim was certain that he was a monster.

He was, therefore, surprised when Carew made no effort to stop him...physically.

"Don't you want to be able to speak again, Agent McGee?"

Tim stopped. The entire universe seemed to stop with that simple question. Tim tried to tell himself that this was just a trick, that Carew was just trying to torture him...again. He tried to make himself push the button anyway.

He couldn't. Even a false hope was more than he had at the moment. He turned back toward Carew and from the depths of his mind, he drew the mask and settled it firmly over his features.

Carew smiled. "I knew I'd get to see the mask again, Agent McGee. We have a few minutes to talk..or rather _I_ do."

Tim looked beyond him to where the guards should be. Carew smiled again.

"I am so thrilled to have the opportunity to tell Director Shephard that I am not the only one who has lousy guards. Did you know that around this time, which is about two a.m., there's an hour window during which no nurse or doctor walks down hall, except in cases of emergency? Knowing that, it was child's play to subdue the two guards outside your door. I'm actually getting a little slow. One of them was close to drawing on me."

Tim's eyes widened.

"Oh, don't worry. They're not dead, merely sleeping the sleep of the soon-to-be highly-embarrassed. Those two men, miserable though they are at their job, are fellow G-men. I don't have it in me to kill them for doing their jobs."

Tim made a sign that Abby had taught him. The hatred he felt was beyond words anyway. A simple sign couldn't possibly show it, but the physical movement made him feel better...besides, he wouldn't give Carew the satisfaction of hearing him babble.

Carew merely laughed. "I doubt that your mother would be happy to know you've used that highly colorful phrase."

Tim glared and made another sign...very emphatically.

"As much fun as your antics are, Agent McGee... can I call you Tim?"

Tim just stared. He saw no reason to let Carew play him for a fool.

"I'll take that as a no. As I was saying, we have an hour, but we also have some distance to go. So, I'll give you my pitch right now. You come with me and help me out and I'll give you back your ability to speak."

The mask dropped, just for an instant, but it dropped and Carew saw the desperate hope blazing out of Tim's eyes. Then, he remembered himself and the hope was all but gone...still, there was a flicker.

"I swear it. If for no other reason than that you are of no use to me in your current state. I will have to cure you first."

Tim didn't answer. He didn't even move. How could he believe this man? How could he trust him? _I can't trust him...but maybe...just maybe I can use him._ He looked at Carew and pointed to his fingers.

"Actually, you _do_ have choice. You can stay here, live the rest of your life locked away inside your head...with the very _very_ remote chance that you could recover on your own..._or_ you can come with me and have a, well nothing is 100 percent certain of course, but I'd say at least a 95 percent chance of getting back your ability to communicate."

Tim still didn't move.

"I need an answer, Agent McGee. Either come with me or push that button. You have a choice to make."

Tim had a choice...but he didn't...and they both knew it. They both knew that Tim could no more push the button to bring in the nurse than he could suddenly stand and start spouting Shakespeare. He looked at Carew with deep loathing.

"Don't you find it interesting, Agent McGee, that your aphasia is so specifically affecting every outlet you might have for communication? Rather coincidental, don't you think?"

If his legs hadn't been broken, Tim would have been out of the hospital bed in a second with his hands around Carew's throat...but as it was, he merely clenched his fists tightly and forced the mask to stay where it was.

"Before you give yourself an aneurism, please note that _I_ did not cause your current state. I had no hand it. However, I will not pretend that I am not willing to use your desperation to my advantage. I have tried to get in here legitimately, but your Director Shephard would not allow it. Now, I am taking matters into my own hands and all the rules are out the window. So, Agent McGee, what's it to be?"

_I can't stay like this. I can't. He knows it. I know it. He knows who did this; even if he _didn't_ have a hand in it, he must know a lot more than he's telling me right now. If I stay here, I'll go crazy. If I go with him...who knows what will happen? ...but what choice do I have? None. No choice at all._

Tim finally nodded.

"Wonderful. Anything you need to do before we leave?"

Tim's eyes strayed to the sketch pad Jenny had left him. Carew didn't miss it at all.

"Oh, by all means, attempt to tell your friends where you have gone. I won't stop you. I won't _help_ you, but I won't stop you. I'm interested to see if you can somehow work around your limitations to get a message across. I know you haven't had any luck with the fingerspelling and only marginal luck with actual signing...although your swearing is certainly up to par."

Carew left the room. Tim was surprised. He didn't _get_ Carew, not one bit. He let absolutely nothing out except for faint amusement. Tim picked up the sketch pad and stared at it. He was no artist as Jenny's vain attempts to stifle her laughter had shown. How could he tell them _anything_? He couldn't draw Carew. He couldn't write his name down. He couldn't spell it. What could he do? He couldn't just disappear. He couldn't do that to them...not again. Then...

He remembered Tony and Ziva talking as they had gone into the CIA Headquarters.

"_Ever been here before, Ziva?" Tony asked as they approached the main entrance a few minutes later._

"_No. You?"_

"_Nope. For some reason, I think that it should look more...foreboding. It's too bright and sunny."_

A map of DC sprang into Tim's head and he began to make a rough sketch...very rough. He drew a square to stand for DC and a sinuous line for the Potomac. He drew another line for the Anacostia. Then, he drew a smaller square approximately where NCIS should be. He stopped. How could he make sure they knew that was NCIS? He grinned to himself, even through his anxiety and drew a stick figure...with pigtails. The stick figure was hugging another stick figure who was smiling. Then, another stick figure with a knife and one slapping the head of a fifth. If they couldn't figure out that was NCIS, he was a much worse artist than even _he_ thought he was.

He then turned his attention to a spot near the Potomac. He drew another building...with a sun above it, but the sun was frowning. Tim put a dark circle around the building, circling it over and over again. Then, he drew another stick figure...a figure with long crooked fingers and fangs. He looked at his own work.

_I should probably just commit myself to the insane asylum and save everyone else the trouble,_ he thought. _Oh, well, I'm pressed for time and I can't do anything else._ He set it on the bedside table at the same time as Carew reentered pushing a wheelchair.

Carew approached the bed and looked at the drawing. To Tim's complete and utter surprise, he started to laugh. It wasn't the same kind of laugh he'd used before. This sounded...almost human, as if he'd been taken by surprise at the sight of the image.

He quickly suppressed the emotion and looked at Tim. "Do you really think they'll figure it out from that? That's not where we're going by the way."

Tim shrugged.

"I admire your faith in your team, but now we have to go. You ready?"

Tim nodded.

"Can you get in this chair yourself or must I assist you?"

Tim didn't know if he could, but he didn't want to touch Carew; so he pulled his legs carefully and dropped them over the side of the bed. He felt a faint throbbing. He hoped that Carew grabbed some painkillers because, without them, he'd be feeling a lot worse in a few hours. Then, he settled himself in the chair and gestured.

_Let's go._

Carew smiled. "Your chariot awaits, Agent McGee."

...and Tim disappeared...again.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Ziva didn't know what was bringing her to the hospital at 3 a.m. All she knew was that she couldn't sleep and she didn't think Tim would be sleeping either. There was also a nagging feeling in her...gut? Perhaps. She wanted to be certain that Tim was okay. She walked down the hallway toward his room. As she turned the corner, she noticed that neither of the guards were outside. She knew they sometimes checked on Tim during the night to make sure that he was still there, still alive, but usually only one went in. The feeling in her gut got worse. She quickened her pace. By the time she got to the room, she was basically running. She burst into the room, her gun out...but no one was there.

Tim was gone. Ziva felt a rare moment of panic. It was just like last time. Tim was simply gone with no indication of how or why or who had done it. She hurried to the phone by the bed to call for help...and stopped.

She saw the pad and Tim's drawing. Tears came to her eyes.

"He tried to leave us a message," she whispered softly. A single tear fell down her cheek. Then, another. And another. "McGee...what does it mean?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: I Have Not Spoken in Secret**

The car hit a pothole and Tim had to bite his lip to keep from letting the moan out. He hadn't particularly enjoyed the floaty feeling of the painkillers before, but he would _love_ to have it now.

"Sorry about that, Agent McGee. Maryland needs to do better maintenance on their roads. I could have gotten my driver to do this. He's a genius at giving a smooth ride and staying within the law...but, well, he's not exactly the kind of person I'd trust with top secret operations."

Tim made no comment, aloud or otherwise.

"Aren't you the least bit curious about what I need you for?"

Tim shook his head, but even through the mask, through the teeth gritted against the increasing pain, Carew could see a flash of curiosity. He smiled.

"You know, Agent McGee, like before, your eyes are still giving you away. You really need to work on that."

Tim let out a long breath, turned toward him and very succinctly flipped him off.

"Wow, you must be really angry at me. I don't think I've seen so much vulgarity in you before."

Tim gestured, but it was not a swear word this time. It was a _get on with it_ gesture. Yes, it was very vigorous, but it wasn't vulgar.

"All right, then, Agent McGee. Let's go back in time about fifteen years. I was a regular CIA agent, spook. Whatever you want to call it, I was one."

Tim rolled his eyes.

"Background is important. Besides, you're getting the rare privilege of knowing something about my history. Don't you feel lucky?"

_No._ The sign was _very_ emphatic. Carew wondered how it was that a simple sign like that could feel like a swear word. He grinned.

"Regardless, that's where we're starting. Until you can speak for yourself, you are hostage to an older man's maunderings. As I was saying, I was an agent. I was good at my job. I was _really_ good at my job. I liked what I did. I got to spend time with my family and..."

They hit another pothole and this time, Tim couldn't help but hiss in pain. Once it had ebbed, he looked at Carew and seemed to be amazed by what he had said.

"Sorry about that. Potholes." Carew shook his head. "You're surprised, Agent McGee? You know, even members of the drug cartels have families. Actually, they're often wonderful parents. I was married. I have children. Two of them actually decided to follow in my footsteps...my wife never forgave me for that." He paused. "Hence, the use of the past tense in describing my marriage. But that's beside the point. I was too good at my job. I was called into the Director's office and given a promotion...a promotion I neither wanted nor appreciated. I did not want to be the Associate Director of the CIA, but in this country, that's what you get for being good. You continually get promoted until you're mediocre. Thankfully, I can't be promoted any farther than I am now. I have no interest in being the President of the United States."

Tim let out a sarcastic, albeit pain-filled, laugh.

"You don't think I can be charming when I want to be? How do you think I got my job? It wasn't for my looks."

Another sarcastic laugh.

"I agree completely. Anyway, I was relieved to discover that my job didn't change a whole lot...except for the hours. I spent more time working, even when I was at home. Did not appreciate it. Then, we fast forward to the year 2000. There were rumblings about terrorist attacks...and there was an internal shakeup in the CIA. Nothing made it into the media, but I was made Director...behind the scenes. Some poor schmuck got put in as the ostensible director, but I was the one with all the responsibility. He got the limelight. Fast forward one year. September 11, 2001. A bad year for everyone..." Carew paused, a moment of silence that surprised Tim because it seemed to have genuine emotion behind it. He found himself wondering if Carew had known people who died in the attacks.

When he resumed his narrative, his voice was extremely ironic. "In the way only Americans can, we banded together...for a few months. We demanded justice, retribution. Afghanistan fell quickly, and everyone was heady with the ease of the success. We have too soon forgotten what a real war is like. Real war is not won in the course of days or weeks. Real wars are horrific events that last years. And as the time built up, again as only Americans can, the unity soured and they began to look for someone to blame for what had happened. Fingers began pointing at every person possible except for the ones who actually hijacked the planes."

Tim was riveted, against his own wishes. Carew was _venting_. Venting to someone who hated his guts. Venting as he'd probably never been able to before. It was strange.

He took a breath and continued. "The CIA felt the brunt of the attack...oh, the FBI got it, too, but people don't like the CIA. Our job is to find out these things. Why hadn't we known? Why in the name of all that is holy were we not able to find the single genuine threat amongst the thousands we uncover every single year? We're not perfect. Hindsight might be, but we, living in the moment, are not. At the end of the all the brouhaha, my public counterpart was sacked and I took his place as the real Director of the CIA. It was then that I could begin a few covert projects I'd been wanting to start. Here is where what I have to say is actually relevant to your current state."

Tim tried to straighten in his seat, but his legs were throbbing now. He settled for clenching his fists tightly.

"I'd give you painkillers, Agent McGee, but you can't have any drugs in your system when we start the process," Carew said, not bothering to elaborate on what "the process" entailed. The emotion was gone again. "I became aware of a group. You have one guess as to which group I'm speaking of. They were some sort of shadowy part of the CIA. My predecessors had known about them, but had chosen to let them continue their work unhindered. In this brave new world, that could not continue. I set up a crew to investigate them, try to discover who they were, what their origins were, who led the group. That crew disappeared after two years of work. We never found all of them...pieces, but not all."

The pain faded to the background beneath the horror Tim felt. He knew what Carew meant. He'd been a part of it too many times to doubt it. Carew caught the change in his expression and the irony was back.

"Your problem, Agent McGee, is that you see the world in black and white, even after all this time, all this evidence to the contrary. To borrow from...oh, I don't remember his name. I'm sure that your Agent DiNozzo could tell me. That guy from _Clear and Present Danger_, not Harrison Ford. 'Gray. The world is gray.' It is not black and white. We are not so easily divided into the camps of good and evil, Agent McGee. You may wish we were, but we are not. You would, I'm sure, wish to place yourself securely on the side of good...and you would place me and your former coworkers on the side of evil. What you don't understand, Agent McGee, is that you are no more white than I am. You have done things that would constitute murder if they came out. You know that. As do I. But you are not evil. You have done evil things...but you are not evil.

"I have a job to do. My job, as I see it, is first, to protect this country. That must come before _everything_. Nothing, not you, not my family, not anyone comes before the good of the United States. Not even laws. Second, my job is protect the people who work for me. That comes second to the country, but it comes before protecting the reputation of the CIA. That is third. Those are my jobs and that is what I do, Agent McGee. I do it at the cost of everything else. Taking down that group, headed by no less than one of my own advisors, was to protect this country. They were killing people to protect themselves, not to protect the country. Think what you like of me, but I have not done that."

Tim was silent, both in mind and body. His legs were forgotten as the litany of his many crimes seemed to scroll across the windshield. He couldn't deny what Carew had said about him. It was true. He had killed many innocents. Too many.

"I set up another group, without revealing the make-up to my advisors...and I put on it two people I could trust implicitly and one man whose record spoke for him. Then, as you no doubt remember, someone hacked the CIA. My interest in finding the group was momentarily put aside in our efforts to discover who it was who had simply flitted around our servers like he owned the place."

Tim flushed.

"I decided that it was more important to find that person than to find a group I was having no success in tracking in the first place. So, I was ready to send a message to tell my team to change their focus when, to my shock, they suddenly reported that they had been contacted somehow and ordered to find the hacker. They could not find the origin of the message, except that it came from within the CIA. I told them to do as they had been ordered and to stay off the grid at all times. You know what happened from there. They found _you_." Carew smiled.

There was a faint light, signaling the start of another day off to Tim's right. He looked around at the lightening landscape. He hadn't been paying attention to their destination, but now he was surprised to see that they were closing in on New York City. He looked at Carew with confusion.

"Let's fast forward once more to about three weeks ago. The group that you so handily destroyed has been under guard...secretly. Unfortunately, some of my trust was misplaced. Don't rely on records. That rarely works out. Your former handler and her boss escaped. They are, of course, the ones who did this to you." At Tim's look of surprise, he chuckled. "I told this to your director last week. Did she not see fit to inform you? I guess not," he said in mock surprise.

_They escaped. They're after me again. Why? Why now? Why would they risk it just for revenge? It doesn't make sense. Why didn't they tell me?_

"Here we are," Carew announced as they pulled up to an extremely fancy house. At Tim's glance, he laughed. "Not everything takes place in old abandoned warehouses, Agent McGee. Sometimes, our evil plots can be achieved in style." He pulled into a four car garage and put down the door. Then, he got out and retrieved the wheelchair he'd taken from the hospital. He rolled it around and opened the door to Tim's side.

"Today is, as they say, the first day of the rest of your life, Agent McGee. Are you ready to play ball?"

Tim looked around. It just looked like the entry to a house...a very, _very_ fancy house, but a house nonetheless. However, he was quite sure he'd see something different within. He'd already made his decision back in the hospital. He nodded and gingerly maneuvered his legs out the door.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs was five seconds away from throttling the two shame-faced agents sitting before him. Tim's former hospital room was in uproar. Abby was sobbing uncontrollably; Ducky and Tony were both trying to calm her down. Gibbs and Jenny were taking turns shouting at the agents. Only Ziva was silent. She had called Gibbs, sounded the alarm and then sat down on Tim's bed and looked at the sketch he had made. She was still looking at it...but not really seeing it for the moment. She was remembering her first day officially on Gibbs' team when she had been paired with Tim. He had been nice to her, gentlemanly, as he generally was. Instantly accepting.

"_It's...It's not you. Ziva, the last month has been hard on everyone. But I'm glad you're here._

"_Yes?"_

"_Yeah. It means I'm not the newbie anymore."_

Small wonder she had spent so much time in his company at the beginning. He was easy-going. He was nice. Why was it that bad things happened to such nice people? Because they _were_ nice. That made them easy targets. Tim had spent the last six months trying to get his niceness back, his innocence. He hadn't succeeded, not totally. He couldn't. He hadn't told them the details of all that he had done. It was still too painful for him, but every once in a while he would suddenly offer up a tidbit of information that was germane to the case at hand...that he hadn't experienced at NCIS. That was usually followed by a period of dull silence on his part as everyone, including him, realized where that knowledge had originated.

She fiercely wiped away the tears that insisted on forming in her eyes. Tears would not help find Tim again. He had not simply disappeared without a trace. He had left a clue. Why he had been _allowed_ to leave such a clue was another matter. So, while Gibbs continued to shout in tandem with Jenny, and Abby continued to cry, Ziva forced herself to stop worrying and start thinking.

A square. That could be anything. Leave it to the side for now. She looked at the squiggly lines. Why lines? Okay, leave that as well. She turned her attention to the stick figures. It took all of ten seconds for her to realize who they were. She laughed but felt another tear escape. Her laughter took the others by surprise and they all fell silent. She looked at them.

"McGee left us a clue!"

"What is it, Ziva?" Ducky asked.

Ziva pointed to the stick people. "Look! It's _us_...at NCIS. Here is Abby with her pigtails, me, with my knife, Tony getting head-slapped by Gibbs. This is NCIS. So..." She looked again.

"It's DC," Tony said.

"Yes! Here is the Anacostia..."

"...and the Potomac," Abby interjected. "So...what's that? ...and why is the sun frowning?"

They all looked.

"Anyone have a map of the Metro?" Ducky asked.

"Tony..." Ziva said, suddenly. "...do you not remember...when we were going into the CIA with McGee? You were talking about how it should not be so sunny. It should be dark and foreboding."

Tony laughed. "Leave it to the Probie to remember that. A frowning sun. But it doesn't make sense. Would they take him there?"

"I doubt it...but..." Jenny paused. "Director Carew _has_ been very insistent about talking to McGee. Maybe McGee wasn't trying to tell us _where_ he was being taken, but by _whom_."

"So...it was the CIA...not the other people."

"How many people does Tim know in the CIA?" Abby asked. "He knows that group that he worked for...but except for Kristine Blumell, he never saw the people who tortured him."

Gibbs answered. "He knows the Director of the CIA."

"Would he–?" Ducky began.

"Oh, yes, he would," Jenny said. "And he'd enjoy it...but I doubt he took McGee back to CIA headquarters. That would be too easy."

"So...where do we start?"

"We have to figure out _why_ Carew took him first. That will tell us where," Gibbs said.

"I'll try and get in touch with him as soon as I get back to MTAC," Jenny said. "If he's not there, we'll know it's him."

"At four in the morning?" Abby asked.

"If it's urgent, the Director is _always_ available...and this will be urgent. If he is unreachable, it is because he is somewhere with McGee." She turned around and stalked out of the room. She stopped beside the two men. "You two had better hope that we find McGee alive and well. If we don't, you'll _wish_ I had fired you." Then, she left.

"Okay, we'll let Jenny verify, but we're going to work on the assumption that this is the CIA we're dealing with."

"How did we get duped _again_, Boss?" Tony burst out. "This shouldn't have happened! We knew McGee was in danger. We knew that they could come after him again...and we screwed up! Again! If I was McGee, I'd stop trusting us to help him out."

"No," Ziva said, softly.

"What?" Tony asked.

"No."

"Ziva's right," Abby said. "If you were Tim...you'd still believe that we could find you." Abby wiped away her tears which had left dark mascara streaks down her cheeks. "Look at what he drew. He drew us. He's smiling. He left us something to use. If he didn't believe we could do it..."

"He wouldn't have tried at all," Ducky said. "You are right, my dear. Let's not let him down."

"Fingerprints, hair samples," Abby said, pointing imperiously at Ziva and Tony. "Security video! I need it all! You get it and bring it to me. I'll be in my lab." She squared her shoulders and walked out. Gibbs gestured for Ducky to go with her as another breakdown would more than likely follow this brave face.

"Well, you heard her," Gibbs said, smiling slightly. "Let's process the room. Tony..."

"Security tapes," he said and was gone.

"This drawing, rough as it is, took time, Gibbs. Why would Carew allow McGee to do so?"

"I don't know, Ziva," Gibbs admitted. "That's something else we'll figure out. Because we _are_ going to find him. Again."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Speak Evil of No Man**

"You failed to mention that both his legs were broken!"

Tim jumped at the voice. He looked at Tara with something beyond loathing. She chose not to acknowledge his expression. Instead she focused on Carew.

"You also failed to mention that the apraxia was not permanent. I should have known that right away. How am I supposed to fix this if I don't get the information I need?"

"It was supposed to be permanent as you well know," Carew answered. "That's how the process was designed. It's not _my_ fault they stole a faulty set. It apparently lasted for about a day before Agent McGee could move again."

"Well, we'll have to strap him down then. We can't have him writhing while I'm fixing him."

Tim glared at the two of them. The way they were talking _about_ him rather than to him got on his nerves. _They do know exactly what caused this. That's why they know how to fix it. _How could he trust them now?

"As you wish," Carew said, calmly. "Let's not dally, however, Tara. NCIS won't be in the dark for long."

"They won't find us here."

"This is the mistake you continually make, my dear," Carew replied. "You continually underestimate your opponents. You underestimate the power of loyalty, the abilities of the NCIS people, even Agent McGee himself."

"Yes, well, I learned from the best," she said with a nasty edge. There was no real respect in the tone.

Tim looked back and forth between the two of them...and a thought, an impossible thought, rushed through his head. He made a sign at Carew and then pointed to Tara.

"See? I myself have underestimated Agent McGee again."

"What? What did he say?" Tara asked.

"And you said that it would be a waste of time to learn sign language." Carew then walked back to the wheelchair and pushed Tim through the house. So far...it looked normal...

Tara opened the doors to a room that had probably been an amazing ballroom once. Now, it was all stainless steel and flickering lights...and it was frightening. It was like the horror movie version of Autopsy. Tim wished that he could run away...but even had his legs been whole, he would have been powerless to do so.

"All right, Agent McGee. Up on the table."

She reached out to help him and he flinched away from her touch. A look of surprise crossed her face and then quickly disappeared.

"Fine, do it yourself, but let's get a move on. I'll explain the process as we go along."

Tim carefully maneuvered himself from the chair onto the table. He sat on the edge and ignored Tara's hints that he should lay down.

_I will not put myself in your power until I know what you're going to do to me,_ Tim said, silently, staring at her with a stubborn expression.

"Lay down, Agent McGee."

_No._ Tim fell back on one of the few signs he knew because it seemed childish for him to simply shake his head over and over. Besides, his legs were two trunks of pain at the moment. He was with two people he trusted about as far as he could throw them. His attitude wasn't the best, to say the least.

"I take it, that means no," she asked Carew.

"Indeed. Although I'm sure that were he able, Agent McGee would add a few other words to that declaration," Carew said grinning. "Oh, tell him what you're going to do. You might as well get it all out now."

"Fine," she said, and the way she said it only cemented Tim's thought. The thought that followed the first one made him look around the room for further confirmation. There was no one else there.

"Agent McGee, if I could have your attention."

Tim looked back at her, bringing the mask over his features. He'd let her know how much he hated her, but he could try and be as cool as the two other people in the room..._At least, I could if my legs weren't broken._

"What happened to you is simple. You were injected with a synthetic drug that shut down your Broca's area. It's very experimental and developed by...the CIA."

"So modest," Carew said softly. Tara glared at him.

"It is done by injecting the drug directly into your frontal lobe in the Broca's area. It isolates the communication functions of that part of your brain and makes speech, writing and reading impossible. The reason the drug was not discovered when they ran tests on you is that it is absorbed directly into the brain tissue and essentially acts as real tissue."

Tim was appalled. Why would anyone want to develop a drug like that?

"Returning you to full brain function is a simple task. We simply inject another drug into the same area that breaks up the first. However, because we need to be able to monitor your brain waves and the level of functionality in your brain, you must remain conscious and unmedicated. This would have been the case in the first instance...which is more than likely the reason they chose to run you down first. Are there any blank spots in your memory?"

Tim signed _yes_. He refused to make this easy for her. The fact that Carew knew what he was saying was irrelevant.

"As near as NCIS can tell, you were missing for a day and a half. It probably took that long for them to get you to a secure location and set up all the equipment. They would have had to drill a very small hole in your skull in order to get the needle in. If the doctors missed that, it is because the hole would only _be_ the size of a needle. Fortunately, we won't have to do that again. Instead, I'll just use the already existing hole and follow the same path down."

Tim struggled not to wince. This sounded extremely unpleasant.

"It takes about five minutes because I don't want to screw up the rest of your brain getting to the Broca's area. It will hurt, but the most painful part of the procedure is _not_ the needle."

_Oh, really?_ That sounded ominous.

"What hurts more is the fact that we have not yet been able to keep the drug from crossing the blood-brain barrier. Some of it will circulate through your system just like any other drug, but you can expect to feel intense pain and more than likely some burning sensations. Those are the side effects reported in previous trials." She spoke clinically, and Tim couldn't decide if he was impressed or if he was simply horrified that she knew all this, had apparently had some experience with it, and possibly had been in on its inception. "Now...will you please lay down?"

Tim looked at her. He looked around the room in a slow methodical manner. This was why he had come with Carew in the first place. While he little wanted to suffer more pain at Tara's hands than he already had in the past, he was certain that no one else could effect a cure. Finally, he nodded and gently swung his legs up onto the table, biting his lips against screaming. Before he lay down, Tara indicated that he should remove his shirt. He suddenly remembered that he hadn't had a shirt on when the others had done this to him before. He removed it carefully and lay down. Immediately, Tara began to place straps and sensors all over his body but mostly on his head. Two blocks were moved onto either side of his head, wedging it place. Then, another strap across his chin and one over his forehead, along with more sensors. Tim now had no peripheral vision. He couldn't move any part of his head except for his eyeballs and his mouth.

Within two minutes, Tim couldn't have moved _any_ part of his body if he had wanted to. He was one with the table. Tara disappeared from his view and he heard soft whispered voices off to the side. He couldn't discern what they were saying. Then, Tara was back. A long, a terrifyingly long needle passed in front of his eyes as she prepared to begin.

"Here it comes, Agent McGee. Feel free to scream."

Tim was determined not to. He felt Tara's fingers probing gently across his scalp, searching for the hole. Tim felt a small prick. Then...then, the needle was sinking slowly through his skin, through his skull, through his brain. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly. As Tara had said, it hurt, but not unduly...it was just awful to know what was going on and to know that he couldn't do anything to stop it...and that he wasn't _supposed_ to stop it.

"There we are," Tara said, almost purring. Her voice was so different from when she had been speaking _to_ him. "One...more..._there_. Brace yourself, Agent McGee. The time it takes for the side effects to begin varies. It is quite quick, however." Her voice became clinical again. "I need some gauze. Thank you."

Then, the needle was slipping out of his head again. It was gone, but no one spoke. No one removed the straps. No one did anything at all. Tim waited...and waited. He wasn't sure how long it was before he felt the first stirrings of approaching pain.

In seconds, or so it seemed, he went from feeling faintly uneasy to complete agony. He gritted his teeth against the pain. The throbbing from his legs was completely irrelevant in the face of this new pain. He could hear Tara speaking again, saying something about monitoring his brain activity, but Tim couldn't focus long enough to understand her.

There were no words in his head. All that remained was pain and the creeping feeling of all his limbs being on fire. He could no longer hold back and he began to scream, pulling against the restraints as his body tried to writhe away from the agony. There was no escape from it and it continued to get worse and worse until finally, after an eternity of pain, Tim's body decided it had had enough and Tim passed out.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"They insist that Director Carew has been 'unavoidably detained,'" the tech reported. The disbelief was heavy.

"As I expected. Thank you. Tell your contact that I have some very important things to discuss with him should he care to surface again. Use those exact words, please," Jenny said, smiling.

"Yes, ma'am."

Jenny removed the headset and walked out of MTAC. So...Carew had Tim, but why? He had refused multiple times to tell her his reasons, always with that faint smile on his face. She shivered slightly. It was an unnerving expression which was probably the point. Carew obviously relished the effect he had on others. Jenny walked passed Cynthia without really noticing her as she mulled over the possibilities. That Carew had been impressed with Tim was a point. He had offered a job...but not seriously because he knew that Tim wouldn't take it. He had seen, firsthand, what Tim's friends were like and he must know that they wouldn't stop until they found him. He must also have allowed Tim to make that drawing. Why? Why allow Tim to leave clues? Perhaps Tim didn't go under duress this time.

"I didn't think he was under duress last time either," Jenny observed to herself. _A similar situation? He wasn't under physical duress? A threat to others? A threat to himself?_ She discarded those thoughts. The report from Tim's therapist revealed someone unwilling to live under the kind of burden he had before. No, if someone had tried to threaten Tim, he would have allowed himself to be killed rather than work for them again. _What would make McGee go with Carew willingly?_

The answer, when it finally came to her was so obvious that she wondered why it had taken her so long to think of it...why _none_ of them had thought of it the moment they found him gone.

She pulled out her phone. "Jethro, I know why McGee is gone."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee would never go with Carew. He _hates_ the CIA," Tony said.

"Yes, but he may have hated his loss of speech more," Jenny said. "Carew told me that McGee's former employers were responsible, which we had already figured out...but..."

"I don't see how that could be possible, Director," Abby said. "There's nothing _I_ know of that could cause aphasia without leaving any traces."

"That's the point, though, isn't it?" Jimmy put in. "_We_ don't know of anything."

"Who's to say that the CIA doesn't?" Ducky agreed.

"Why, though?"

"Interrogation, torture, to keep secrets," Ziva listed. "There are easily found reasons, although this particular method is one I have not heard of before."

"Carew's prints aren't anywhere in the room and there's no sign of him on the security cameras," Abby reported. "And the other prints are all either Tim's or else the medical staff."

"No big surprise there," Tony said and deepened his voice. "'These guys are trained to be ghosts...'"

Gibbs smacked his head.

"Right, not the time for movies, Boss," Tony said quickly.

"How likely is it that this is the reason Carew took McGee?" Ducky asked.

"That this is the only reason?" Jenny asked, smiling sardonically.

"Slim to none, I take it?"

"I think just 'none,' Ducky."

"He needs McGee for something, but what would that be?"

"To catch those guys again?" Abby suggested. Everyone stared. "I mean, he did it once. Wouldn't they think he could do it again?"

"And they would have the perfect tradeoff," Ziva said, anger suffusing her voice. "His words in exchange for his help."

"So...did Carew do it himself?" Jimmy asked, hesitantly. "Or is he just...uh..."

"Taking advantage of the situation?" Jenny finished. Jimmy nodded. "Unfortunately, I think either possibility is equally viable. Carew is something of an enigma. As Director of the CIA, he has to have a public persona, but beyond that, he's a blank slate."

"Abby?"

"I don't think so, Gibbs," Abby said. "Whoever Carew is, whatever his background, it's not in the CIA system...at least, not that I can find...maybe..." She stopped and didn't finish the thought.

"If Carew does have him, and actually _can_ reverse the aphasia, where would he go?" Ziva asked.

"Not CIA Headquarters," Tony said. "But they've already proven that they can set up shop pretty much anywhere, including the suburbs." He snapped his fingers. "Hiding in plain sight, like before, Boss. ...but if that's the case..."

"How do we track him?"

Everyone sagged again. They knew who. They might know why. They still had no idea of where.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim opened his eyes. It was dark. He rolled over and moaned. The pain was muted, both from his legs and from everywhere else. _So, the monsters had some pity on me after all,_ he thought wryly. His entire body felt stretched and worn when he moved...so he stopped moving. Then, recent events suddenly caught up to him and he sat up quickly...and then lay back down just as quickly when the room started to spin.

_Can I talk again?_ Tim asked himself. He felt no different than before. Was this all a big joke, another twist of the knife, an extension of the game? He looked around. He was in a rather ornate bedroom. The bed was very comfortable. That was something. Then, he looked at the bedside table. There was a phone. He picked it up and heard a dial tone. Tim sat up again and looked at the phone. _Can I talk?_ Why would they leave a phone there if he could? He was so afraid to try. He was afraid that if he couldn't talk, he wouldn't be able to take it.

Trembling, he reached out and began to dial. Even if he couldn't, they would hear his voice and know it was him. They could trace the call.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Another day almost over. Another day with no idea where Tim could be. No one wanted to leave again. No one wanted to admit that they couldn't do anything. Everyone felt guilty.

Gibbs looked around the room. Tony was sitting at his desk, looking at something on his computer screen...probably not actually seeing anything. Ziva was looking at Tim's drawing. For some reason, she had latched onto it and didn't want to leave it anywhere. Jenny had gone to see if she could find any clues in MTAC, but Ducky and Jimmy were both still in the bullpen, now in their street clothes. Abby was sitting at Tim's desk...well, _on_ Tim's desk. Ducky was sitting in the chair. It was as if they were all waiting for something.

They needed to find something, as much for their own sakes as for Tim's.

His phone started to ring. He thought about ignoring it, but whatever the problem was, it wouldn't go away if he ignored it. He had an obsessive ex-wife to show the truth of that statement.

"Gibbs."

There was no sound on the other end of the line...just soft breathing.

"Hello?" Gibbs asked. The others looked up.

Still, only breathing.

"If there's no one here, I'm hanging up."

"...B-Boss?" Then, a soft exhalation...almost of disbelief.

"McGee?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: A Word Spoken in Due Season**

"So, you were right..."

Carew looked at her, eyebrows raised.

"...as usual."

"Thank you."

Tara began to leave the room.

"Where are you going?"

"He's calling his boss. They'll trace the call."

"Yes, they will. Sit down."

"Why?"

"Brie..."

That halted Tara in her tracks. She turned around. "I haven't heard that name in a while."

"You have too many aliases. I'm getting too old to keep them straight. It's easier to fall back on the name I gave you."

"Even if I believed you, which I don't, that still doesn't explain you falling back on it."

"No reason, but it got your attention, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"Good. So, sit down. We're not going to stop him."

"What's to keep him from telling them where he is?"

"Nothing."

"You know, Director, I just don't follow you sometimes."

"Hence the reason _I_ am the Director." He glanced over at her. "Think about it. You'll figure it out."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Everyone crowded around Gibbs. He had to put the phone on speaker, but he gestured for them all to shut up.

"_Boss, I'm with Carew and Tara."_

"Where?"

Tim's voice was filled with relief as he spoke..._as he spoke!_ _"Somewhere in Somerset. I'm not sure where."_

"Why not, Probie?" Tony asked.

Tim's voice lost the relief. _"Because I was riding in a car over bumpy roads with two broken legs and no painkillers, Tony. You try doing that for a few hours and see how much scenery you take in. But I have a better question. Why didn't you tell me you knew that my handler was involved?"_

Everyone looked around...but Gibbs answered. "Do you think it would have been better if you had known?"

"_Keeping me in the dark hasn't really worked all that well for you, has it."_

There was too much truth in the accusation to deny it. "We're tracing your call, McGee. We'll come and get you."

Unexpectedly, there was a sad sigh. _"No."_

"What?"

"_No, Boss. You can't come and get me."_

"Why not?"

"_I made a deal, Boss."_

"A deal."

"_Yes. Carew said that he'd get rid of the aphasia if I helped him."_

"Yeah...and?" Tony asked.

"_I made a _deal_, Tony. I can't back out."_

"Why not?"

"_If I do that, how am I any different from them?"_

"That's not the reason, McGee," Gibbs said.

"_Isn't it?"_

"No."

"_You're right. It's not."_

"Do you trust them?"

"_No. Of course, I don't. That would be like committing suicide."_

Gibbs could hear the emotion leaving Tim's voice...the mask was returning. "McGee..."

Tim's voice broke in quickly...a warning. _"Don't, Boss. Please. Don't."_

"Fine."

"_Think about it, Boss. There's no way Carew would have left a working phone in here if he wasn't sure that I'd use it. I'm sure we'll be moving soon. You won't get here fast enough anyway."_

"The local police could," Ziva said, pointedly.

"_But you're not going to call them."_

"Tim..." Abby whimpered.

"_Abby...it's nice to be able to say your name again. Who's there?"_

"Pretty much everyone, except for Director Shephard."

"_Oh. Don't call the police. Let me do this. Please."_

"You tell me why, then, McGee. Tell me why I shouldn't get the local LEOs to storm that house in the next two minutes."

"_Because _I_ need this."_

"Need what?"

"_I need to take them down. I can't live the rest of my life wondering if they're going to find me again. Do you honestly think the CIA will keep us informed about whether or not they've been found? They won't. Carew wants me to help him get them. I don't know why me. It can't be for my physical prowess considering I can't even walk at the moment. It must be something with computers, but all I know is that I _need_ to be here. So, don't call the police. That's not why I called."_

"Then, why _did _you call us?"

Tim sighed again, but his voice was as emotionless as ever when he answered. _"You know why. Besides, I think Carew wanted me to call you. And he knows you'll trace the call. You must know where I am right now."_

Gibbs looked at Abby who nodded.

"_I think he wants you along for the ride. I don't know why, but he does. Boss, this is different than before. It's not the same."_

"Tell me how."

"_This isn't self-sacrifice. I'm not planning on dying. This is to save me, not for me to let myself die."_

Gibbs wanted to tell Tim that he didn't care whether or not he wanted to be there. He didn't care about finding his handler and her boss. He didn't care about helping Carew. He wanted to say all that, but he didn't. He didn't trust Carew, but he did trust Tim.

"Okay, McGee."

There were some muted protests. He silenced them with a look.

"_Thank you, Boss."_

"Do you know where you're headed next?"

"_No, but I'd guess New York City. That's where this started."_ Tim gave a humorless laugh. _"Catch me if you can."_ Then he hung up.

"Boss, we're not going to let him do that, right?" Tony said, earnestly.

"Yes, we are, Tony."

"What?" Ziva protested. "You are going to allow McGee to remain in the power of the CIA? Why?"

"Because _he_ wants it that way."

"So? Who cares what he wants?"

Gibbs glared at Tony. "As his friend, _you_ should probably care, DiNozzo."

Tony flushed and didn't answer.

Gibbs hung up the phone and headed for the elevator.

"Where are you going, Boss?"

"Somerset, DiNozzo. You coming?"

Tony and Ziva looked at each other for two seconds, then grabbed their bags and ran for the elevator, getting in just as the doors began to close.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"So...he didn't ask them to come. You mind telling me how you knew he'd do that?" Tara asked, sitting back from the monitor and staring at Carew.

"Easy. Agent McGee is an honest man."

"And?"

"You are too cynical, Tara. Honest men won't lie to save their own skins. They tell the truth as far as they can _because_ they're honest."

"And you would know this...?" she asked, with a cynical smile.

Carew stared at the monitor. "I understand how Agent McGee thinks."

"You calling yourself an honest man?"

Carew looked away from the monitor and smiled faintly. "Think back, my dear. Have you ever known me to tell an outright lie, whether to you or to anyone else? I'll admit to being very good undercover, but that's a different matter entirely. When it comes down to it, what's the last lie you remember me telling?"

Tara thought back...over years. When she focused on Carew's face again, he was still smiling.

"See?" he said. "I may refuse to answer. I may even tell you that I'm not going to reveal everything, but I don't generally lie about it."

"Not that I know of."

"True. You'll just have to trust that I'm telling the truth when I say I'm telling the truth...the ultimate paradox." He looked back at the monitor. "There's a reason that we have that Bible passage for our motto, you know."

"Okay, so tell me why you want the NCIS people along. We have the one we need."

"Do you know how many years I spent trying to track down that group? Ten years. They were tracked down and apprehended in two months by that man," he pointed at the monitor, "_and _the rest of his team. They can get the job done. Besides, there's a better reason."

"What's that?"

"Trust and loyalty," Carew said. Then, he stood up. "Still, we'd best not linger. Is the secondary site up and running?"

"Of course. What do you mean?"

"So, you go and pack up our stuff...don't be too clean, will you? I'll go and get our guest."

"Dad..."

Carew stopped and turned around. His expression didn't change. "I haven't heard that name in awhile. Why now?"

"It got your attention, didn't it?" Tara returned.

"Yes, it did."

"What do you mean about trust and loyalty?"

Carew smiled. "You'll see. You've seen it already. You just need to put the pieces together. You're good at that. You'll figure it out." Then he left the room.

Tara looked after him for a few moments. Then, she looked at the monitor and shrugged.

"Off we go."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim tried not to feel the fear that had welled up when he had told Gibbs to let him stay with Carew. He had no doubt that they had been watching him. They were _always_ watching.

"Agent McGee, glad you are up and about...and fully functional," Carew said, as he pushed the wheelchair into the room. "We have places to go."

"Why did you want me to call my team?"

"Why did you _want_ to?" he returned.

Tim glared.

"If you knew that I wanted it, then why did you do it anyway?"

The two men stared at each other in silence.

Then, Carew smiled that irritating smile again. "I'd venture that the answers to each of those questions is the same. You called your team because you wanted to talk to someone you trusted, to let them know that you were fine. That is why _I_ wanted you to call them."

"But not for just that reason."

"No. My reasons go further than that."

"Why?"

Carew didn't answer.

"Fine. I have a better question. Is the aphasia gone for good? Will I relapse?"

"There have been no relapses in any of the trials we ran. However, I am not the developer of the drug. I could be wrong. You would have to ask Tara."

The mention of Tara reminded Tim of what he had wondered before. "So, I was right about her."

"Yes."

"You said before, in the car, that you had put two people you trusted implicitly on that team, that only one was due to records. That means..."

Carew cut him off. His voice didn't change, but...for the first time, there was a flicker in his eyes. A dangerous flicker. "Now, Agent McGee, this is hardly the time for that conversation. We have places to go."

"What will happen to me?"

"What do you mean?"

"When I've done whatever it is that you want me to do...what will you do with me? I'm under no illusion that I could fight you off and escape. So, at least do me the courtesy of telling me what your plan is."

Carew shrugged. "Should we be successful, I'll take you back. If I'm feeling particularly malicious, I'll take you to the hospital and let the doctors ooh and aah over you and your 'miraculous' recovery. If I'm feeling generous, I'll simply take you back to your apartment...or to NCIS. Either way, you'll be free."

"If we're not successful?"

"Then, if we're lucky, we'll all only die."

Tim stared at him, revealing nothing. Carew did the same.

Tara opened the door. "We got a ping on the radar."

"Really? I'm almost disappointed," Carew said and left the room.

Tim sat on the bed. He wanted to leave a message, like he had before. He wasn't sure why. They knew where to come. They knew as much as he did...almost. One thing he hadn't admitted was how familiar this felt. How easy it was to just pretend that his friends didn't exist, that all that did exist was the job he had to do. Don't think about anything beyond the job because that only brings pain, regret. It does not bring happiness. Right now, before the job had begun, while he was alone, he didn't _want_ to forget them. ...that was the reason for the desire to leave a message, but this time, he didn't want Carew to see it. He opened the drawer beside the table and saw the pen and paper. Carew had more than likely left them there on purpose, just to see if he would use them.

It wouldn't be much...maybe it would only confuse them. He wasn't sure, but he wanted to be able to do _something_ without Carew knowing what it was. Tim looked around the room and found the camera. He turned away from it and began to write. He pressed down hard with the pen.

He prefaced his words with a sentence: _This doesn't really mean anything._ He looked at it and smiled and then wrote the rest. After he finished, he tore off the top page and stuffed it into the pocket of the pants he only now realized were different from what he'd been wearing before. _Huh. Weird...and slightly disconcerting._ Then, he placed the pen and paper back into the drawer. Maybe they'd find it. Maybe not, but Tim felt better for having done it. For having left a message, a connection to the people he cared about before he suppressed the emotions that would only betray him.

The door reopened. "What do you want to do?" Tara asked.

Carew didn't answer directly. "Agent McGee, it looks as though we will be taking a detour."

"On our way to New York City?"

"Yes. You were correct in your summation. However, now, we have to go. Elsewhere."

Tim could see that there was no point in trying to get more answers. Tara didn't look at him, and he had no desire to speak with her either. He got into the wheelchair and then they left the house. The car they took was not the one Tim had been in before.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

They drove for a few hours north and west...not east. This was more than a slight detour. Tim wanted to know where they were going, but neither Tara nor Carew spoke, and he got the feeling that speaking was a bad thing at the moment. So he didn't speak. He sat and thought...wondered about what they wanted him to do. He was, therefore, surprised when the car came to a sudden stop at the back of a house. Not the front, the back.

"Stay here, Agent McGee," Carew said, unnecessarily. He and Tara drew their guns and got out of the car. Tim watched them go with worry. It wasn't that he was worried about _them_ per se, but he was worried about what might happen to _him_ as a result. At least, that was what he told himself.

The back door burst open and a man came running out. He stopped when he saw Tim in the car. A look of disbelief crossed his face. Tim looked at him in confusion. Then, he saw Tara running out the back door as well. She had her gun trained on him, but she did not pull the trigger. He turned around and looked at her. She didn't speak.

He brought his gun up, but then Carew came around the house.

"Drop the gun, Thomas," he ordered, his voice hard. It was harder than Gibbs' voice, which was saying something. It brooked no disobedience...and Thomas didn't disobey.

He dropped the gun and put his hands in the air.

"How foolish of you, Thomas. I thought that you might at least fight back...or do a Judas and kill yourself. Well, too bad for you," Carew said and fired. Thomas dropped to the ground, a bullet between his eyes. Tim watched in shock. That man, whoever he was, had given up and Carew had shot him anyway.

Carew walked over and searched Thomas' body. He came up empty except for a cell phone. He dialed a number and then left the cell phone on the body. Tara walked up behind him and stared for a few moments. Then, the two of them walked back to the car, got in and they drove away.

Tim got the feeling that something very...personal had happened there, even if it was a murder. He didn't dare ask who Thomas was or why he had been killed.

Not right then, anyway.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Thy Speech Betrayeth Thee**

"They weren't very clean this time, Boss. There are fingerprints...a whole room full of equipment," Tony reported.

"That's different. McGee said that they could clear out in two minutes. Why not this time?" Gibbs observed.

"Why bring us here at all? McGee said that they knew we would come. Why?" Ziva asked.

Tony walked into the bedroom where Tim had slept. He looked around. They had made no effort to straighten up in here. There were spots of blood on the otherwise-white sheets. Not much, just a little bit. He walked over to the bed and checked the phone. There were prints on it. He opened the drawer and saw the pad. There were a few strokes of ink on the page. He picked up the pad and saw that someone had written a message and then torn it off. It was etched in so heavily that Tony almost didn't have to shade it in. When he did, his brow furrowed for a few moments.

_This doesn't mean anything –_

"_It is a mistake to become emotionally engaged with one of them. You are being manipulated. You are going around in circles to satisfy the curiosity of a power we don't understand and can't control, and she is the living proof that power exists. If she were ugly, you wouldn't want her around; that's why she's not ugly. She is a mirror that reflects part of your mind. You provide the formula. You can only finish where you started, remember that."_

_Gordon to Kelvin_

"Gordon? Kelvin? Why do those sound familiar?" Tony asked aloud. He ran them through his mental lists. Then, he stopped. "_Solaris!_ Why did he leave a quote from _Solaris_? And why did he preface it by saying it doesn't mean anything?"

What had happened that night that would make Tim leave that behind? They had watched the movie and talked about it. Nothing else. _He wrote that it doesn't mean anything. So...why leave it? Why write anything at all? He had already told us what he knew._

"What are you trying to say, McGee?" Tony asked the page. He tried to remember what was going on in that part of the movie. He hadn't watched it again since Tim had forced it on him. George Clooney...or Kelvin...was with the...incarnation of his dead wife. Gordon was trying to convince him to...well, can one really kill something that was already dead? Did any of this even matter? Tim said it didn't...in which case...

"Why, McGee?"

"Why what, Tony?" Ziva asked.

"Why did McGee leave behind a quote from a movie and say that it means nothing?" Tony asked, holding out the page. Ziva took it and read it.

"From _Solaris_."

"How do you know?"

"I watched it. I wanted to know what it was that interested Tim and bothered you," she said smiling.

"And?"

"And I think it is the fact that you do not know what to do with it, Tony. It is ambiguous, strange, leaving you with some sort of decision to make at the end."

"I watch lots of movies like that."

"All at once? With the added science fiction element?"

"Well...no."

"I think McGee left it for you."

"Why?"

"Who else would get it? I did not tell him that I watched the movie."

Tony took the page back and stared at it. "Well, I don't get it any more than I get the movie itself."

"Maybe you should forget the movie and look at what he wrote...but later. There are some scrapings from a dark-colored car in the garage and they do not match the car that is there."

Tony nodded and took the pad with him, in an evidence bag.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

No one spoke in the car as they headed due east, toward New York City. Tim was thinking. He had no idea what Tara and Carew were doing. _He_ was thinking, wondering what they wanted him to do, why they thought that with all the skill and power the CIA had they had chosen to take him...again. It had at least made some sense when the other group had begun using him. They were behind the scenes, hidden. No one was supposed to know about them. Carew was the Director of the CIA; Tara was an agent...so far as he knew. They should have access to people who could do whatever it was they wanted from him.

He tried to think about these things, but his mind kept going back to Carew shooting the man and then leaving his body lying in the middle of the yard. They had known each other. That much was obvious...but the man, Thomas, had seemed to know Tim as well. There had been recognition in his eyes, but Tim didn't know him. He felt as though he was speaking a different language and was left out of something important. There was something more going on that he just didn't understand.

"Who was he?" Tim said, before he even realized that he had intended to speak.

Carew looked in the rear view mirror. The detachment was back, that cold empty smile that showed nothing. It reached all the way to his eyes. How many years had he practiced that expression?

"You don't know him, Agent McGee?"

Tim shook his head.

"He never saw him...not while he was sane," Tara said.

"Oh. I see. You would probably know him better as Griffen." Tim stared, met those empty eyes and saw a flash of amusement at his shock. "You more than likely only saw him in his true nature: a monster. To the rest of the world, he was a man."

"Why did you kill him?"

"I have my reasons."

"It seems sloppy," Tim said, surprised at his words.

"If I had left his body there, yes, it would have been sloppy...but while some people within the CIA are sloppy, _I_ am not."

"But you did leave his body there."

"The body will be gone...actually, it's more than likely already gone. It was not Thomas' house. No one will know that he was even there. If someone heard the noise, there will be nothing to tell them that a murder took place."

"He surrendered...but you just shot him anyway."

"Are you telling me that you would not have done the same?" Tara asked, turning around.

Tim looked at her, but he knew he had not changed expression. His emotions were essentially suppressed. "You're not dead. I saved your life. You're just as culpable."

"You did, but you were hardly in a position to kill us yourself."

"Exactly. It would have been easy to take them down _after_ they had killed you all. I didn't do that."

"Regardless, I had my reasons."

"How does that fit into your job description?" Tim challenged. "How does the country benefit from his death? Whom were you protecting by killing him? How does it help improve the reputation of the CIA?"

"The reputation of the CIA will be unaffected because no one will know about him. No one will mourn his passing. The country is unaffected."

"Who benefits, then?"

"Again, not the time for the answer to that question."

"When, then? When will you tell me what it is that you want me to do? When is it that you'll give me the answers to the questions I'm asking? When I'm dead? When it's too late? Never? When?"

"I wasn't protecting anyone, Agent McGee...but my second responsibility still applies, in more ways than one."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing you haven't done already before."

Something clicked in Tim's head...but it still made little sense to him. "You want me to track them? With what? If you could have done it with the satellites at your disposal, you would have done so already."

"You tracked them."

"With a program that no longer exists. I destroyed it."

"You built it once."

Tim laughed without humor. "You want me to build that program from scratch? I didn't do that the first time. They had elements already. I just pulled it together."

"We have elements, but we can't figure out what they had or how you did it."

"What makes you think I can do this fast enough for it to be any good?"

"It will _always_ be of some use."

"No. I won't leave this for you to use. It's not a good thing. I've never kidded myself that what I was doing was good."

"Really?"

"Fine, at first, I tried to pretend that there was some good in it, but I never really believed it. That program was too easily abused. It's too easy."

"Too easy?" Carew asked. "Easy to find the people we need to stop?"

"Too easy to abuse. We have enough trouble just having satellites and the power to tap into traffic cameras. This makes it all seamless. It's not something I want anyone to use."

"Except yourself?" Tara asked, cynically.

"Not _even_ myself...in fact, _especially_ not myself. I know what I did with it when I had the chance. I felt like a god. There was nowhere for them to hide from me. I was there. All it takes, when it works right, is one glimpse and I can find them."

"Are you saying you won't do it?" Carew asked.

"No. That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that there's no way I'm going to leave it for you when I'm done."

"You think you have a choice?" Carew asked. It wasn't threatening. That was the strange thing.

"Yes, I do. I always have a choice. Always. I may not like the outcome, but I always have a choice. If I do this...if by some miracle I _can_ do this, I won't leave it in a working condition when we find them."

"When?"

"If I get it to work, it won't be a matter of 'if'. It will just be a matter of 'when.'"

"That's all I needed to know, Agent McGee." Carew's eyes went back to the road. The traffic was increasing as they drew nearer to New York City. It was after the morning rush hour...but it was New York. With more than 8 million residents, plus tourists, it was never quiet, never quiescent; however, Carew maneuvered expertly through the traffic. There might have been quite a bit of honking in reaction to his passing, but there were few close calls. After tolerating Ziva's driving over the past three years, it was nothing to worry about. Tim wondered where they'd end up. He couldn't have predicted the high rise in Manhattan.

"Here we are. Now, the doorman knows me, Agent McGee. I'd suggest that you don't try to drop any hints. I'd hate to have to kill him," Carew said blithely.

"I made a deal. I'm not backing out. How much does having property here cost the country?"

"Nothing, actually. It was, believe it or not, _donated_ to the CIA by a grateful benefactor who was dying. We simply said thank you and arranged to have all information about it erased."

"Voluntarily donated?" Tim asked with a cynicism that rivaled Tara's.

"Completely. For rich people, giving something like this is the easiest way to show gratitude for having their lives saved." Carew put the car in park and jumped out.

"Mr. Brown! So good to see you back again."

"Thanks, Davis," Carew said, sounding more friendly than he ever had...Tim wondered if Carew had ever been genuinely friendly in his life. "I have a couple of friends with me, today."

"Very good, sir. Anything you need?"

"Not a thing, just someone to park the car when I get unloaded."

"Will you be here long, sir?"

"Unknown at the moment. I'm hoping I'll be able to stay around for awhile, but you never know what business will require."

"Yes, sir." The doorman in a politely curious manner looked in the car and met Tim's eyes. He smiled and nodded and then clucked in friendly concern at the wheelchair. "What happened, Mr. Brown?"

"One of my friends was recently in an accident. Broke both his legs."

"That's terrible," he said. When Tara got out of the car, he smiled and nodded to her as well. "It's been quite some time, ma'am. I thought you weren't coming back."

"Change of plans, Davis."

"I'm always happy to see you back. Let me get the door for you all. Would you like any help with your bags?"

"No. We can manage. Thank you, Davis."

Tim maneuvered himself into the wheelchair, reluctantly allowing Carew to help him.

"Sir, I'm terribly sorry to hear about your accident," Davis said. His tone was carelessly sincere. He wasn't being a sycophant. He was concerned in the way that he would be about anyone. No more, no less.

"Thank you," Tim said. "So was I." He managed to force a smile.

"That's the ticket, sir. You need any help, just give me a call."

"Will do."

Then, he was inside the building, feeling the rush of cool air on his face as they headed to the ornate elevator. He didn't bother to say anything, but he hated being dependent on these two for everything. The ride was a long one. They must be going up twenty floors. He couldn't tell because he was facing the back of the elevator...which, again, annoyed him.

_Ding!_

The elevator doors opened and Tim was pulled out and pushed down the hallway. He could have insisted on rolling himself, but if he got tired, it would be more embarrassing to actually _ask_ them to help him.

"Here we are, Agent McGee. Your new home away from home," Carew said. The number was 2208.

_Twenty-second floor?_ Tim thought. _If I end up in the same situation as before, there's no way I'm getting out alive this time. No one knows where I am._ The door opened and Carew pushed him inside. It looked too much like the set up with his former colleagues...only fancier. Tim looked at the computers. He hated that he was going to do this...again and for people he held in only slightly less contempt than the people who had forced him the first time.

He remembered the first time so vividly. It had taken days. She had come for him Friday evening and then kept him at work all the way through until the next Tuesday at three a.m. He had been forced to call in sick on Monday. After three straight days of work and no sleep, he really had felt sick...in addition to what he'd been forced to do. Even then, he hadn't finished. He had passed out on the keyboard. His handler had woken him up in her usual fashion...painfully, and he had tried to work, but his mind was numb and she'd had no choice but to let him sleep. He had slept...for about three hours and then dragged himself to work.

"_McGee, are you sure you're not still sick? You look terrible!" Tony said._

"_Just tired, Tony. Had some trouble sleeping," Tim said and looked with longing at the top of his desk. All he wanted to do was put his head down and sleep some more, forget what he'd done and never wake up again._

"_McGee!"_

_Tim jumped and looked up. Gibbs was staring at him. "Yeah, Boss?"_

"_Didn't you hear me?"_

"_Sorry, Boss."_

Tim never had found out what it was Gibbs wanted him to do. Gibbs had stared at him and sent him home. Tim hadn't known how to explain that he didn't _want_ to go home. He just wanted to sleep at his desk...so he had left. He had slept for a few hours and then been put to work again. Another full night of work had finished the program. Tim hadn't slept at all before going to NCIS that morning. He managed to hide his exhaustion and right after work, he had gone back to his apartment and slept solidly from 7:30 to 6:15 the next morning.

That was what it had taken to get it done the first time...and he hadn't been starting from scratch. They had years worth of connections to satellites, cameras, police frequencies, everything...throughout the entire world. He had been required to find a way to cobble all these disparate systems together and force them to work smoothly together on innumerable frequencies. Because he'd done it once, he knew he could do it again, but he didn't know how long it would take.

"Agent McGee? Did you hear me?" Carew asked.

Tim looked up from his contemplation of the computers.

"What?"

"I asked if you wanted to get started now."

"Yes."

"Feel free."

Tim rolled over to the computers. They were already on...and linked in to the CIA servers. That was a bonus. He was already in the mainframe with legitimate access. No requirement to sneak around.

_Even if I can do this, why do they want NCIS to follow? This operation can't remain a complete secret forever. It didn't last time. In fact, I wouldn't have succeeded in taking them all down if it hadn't been for..._ Tim's thoughts came to a stuttering stop. He spun the wheelchair around, nearly knocking it over, and looked at Carew.

"Yes? Was there something?"

"You want NCIS to get them, don't you. You're not trying to do it yourself. You have me along to drag them along. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Carew just smiled.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: With Another Tongue Will He Speak**

"Why not just ask?" Tim demanded.

Carew actually laughed at him. "Ask? What do you think you would have said?"

"Some things that I'd regret later and then I'd have said yes."

"And why is that?"

"For the same reason I'm helping you now."

"Oh, it's not the same."

"Yes, it is...there's some of the same reason. I said it before. I know you heard. I'm doing this because I need to know that they're out of the picture again."

Carew stared into Tim's eyes with that disconcerting gaze. His eyes, Tim noticed for about the first time were nearly black. There was just enough pigment there that he could see some brown, but they looked black...no wonder he looked evil.

"I think you're doing this for same reason I am, Agent McGee."

"What reason is that?"

"Do a little self-reflection. When you figure it out, you'll know." Then, Carew walked away.

Tim stared after him, feeling frustrated, annoyed and afraid. He pushed the emotions away and turned back to the computer. He rolled himself over and put on the brakes. Then, he threw himself into the code, painstakingly, trying to recreate a program that would be able to pinpoint the location of two people who still terrified him. He pushed away that fear and focused on the program...just the program, not what it would do, not who needed it. It was just another problem to solve. That's all.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

On their way back to NCIS with tons of evidence, Tony kept looking at the quotation Tim had left behind. He was more convinced than ever that it wasn't meant to lead them anywhere. Tim had said that he didn't know where they were going beyond New York City. Maybe he was lying? Possible, given the circumstances, but that also didn't ring true. Tim had wanted _something_ from this...but it wasn't a clue as such. Why write it and then tear off the top sheet? It could have been someone else tearing off the sheet, but Carew and Kristine...or Tara were professionals, as they had already shown. They had left all this evidence on purpose. Had they _actually_ wanted to hide this message, they would have simply taken the pad with them.

"Tony, what are you doing?" Ziva asked. "You are being very quiet...which is pleasant, but unlike you."

Tony didn't even laugh. "Trying to think like a McGeek."

"Is that even possible?"

"Not so far."

Ziva turned around in her seat and looked at Tony. "You will figure it out."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because, McGee thought you would. He left that drawing for us, not to lead us anywhere, but to tell us who had him. He left this quotation, not, I think, to lead us to him, but to tell us something else. I think you can figure it out this time, like we did before."

Tony looked at the quotation...again. He paid no attention to the passing miles, the passing minutes as he thought. He wasn't sure why it was so important to him, but Tim had found it important. That was enough.

_You are being manipulated._ Tim certainly had been manipulated before, threatened, hurt and then tortured. Manipulation was definitely a part of Tim's past. What about his present? Carew had promised to cure him...in exchange for help. If that wasn't manipulation... _You are going around in circles to satisfy the curiosity of a power we don't understand and can't control_...Tim had definitely felt out of control of his own life. It wasn't curiosity, however. It had been slavery essentially. _She is a mirror that reflects part of your mind. _Okay, why? What had Tim gotten out of that line? Even if this wasn't a clue to his whereabouts, he had picked it for a reason. His handler had been cruel. Carew had taken him. Was Tim saying that he was like his handler? Like Carew? Impossible. Tim was _nothing_ like them...a small part of his mind disagreed with that, but Tony ignored it._ You provide the formula. _What formula? Okay, forget that._ You can only finish where you started, remember that._ Where had Tim started? Tony sat up.

"He started with a confrontation."

"What?" Ziva asked. It had been over an hour. She was impressed that Tony was taking it so seriously, but it was slightly worrisome as well. Tony felt guilty for letting Tim disappear again...as they all had, but Tony seemed to feel it more, for whatever reason.

"McGee's problems started when that group confronted him. The whole thing started when he was hacking the CIA, but the problems didn't start until that group found him and started to use him. A face to face confrontation started it. That's what ended it last time."

"You think that McGee intends on confronting them in person again?" Ziva asked. "He could not even stand."

"But think about it. McGee _hated_ every minute of working with them. He even hated himself for it. He wouldn't do it again, but if he had to, I think he would confront them, just to stop them."

"He said it was not a death wish."

"I don't think he was lying," Gibbs put in.

"What if he isn't trying to lead us to him...just to let us know he's alive?" Tony asked.

"If he still ends up dead, that doesn't really matter, now does it."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Wow...what _is _all this?" Abby asked.

"Evidence," Ziva said.

"From where Tim was?"

"Yep. All of it."

"Kinda messy, weren't they?"

"Intentionally, we think. Start with this," Tony said, holding out the scraping. "This might _not_ have been on purpose. It's from the car they took."

"On it," Abby said, but she stopped as she began to turn around. "Is that...blood?"

"Yeah."

"Tim's?" Her voice was small.

"Probably, but not enough to be dangerous...more like a bad paper cut or something like that," Tony said, quickly.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," Ziva said.

"If you're lying..." Abby began.

"We are not, Abby. We would not lie."

Abby merely stared at the two of them without comment.

"...about _this_," Tony clarified.

"Okay...I'll let you know what I find." She turned around and began to work.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"It's been eight hours and he hasn't looked up once," Tara said, staring at Tim. "Aren't you worried?"

"About what?" Carew asked.

"About him working himself to death. If he doesn't finish..."

"He'll finish. He knows when to stop...or rather his body does. He'll pass out before he dies."

"He's right, you know. There's a limited timetable we're working under."

"I know...which is why I'm sure he'll make it."

"Why is he helping us?"

Carew didn't look away from Tim's hunched form. "Because he has no other choice."

"I thought you said you didn't force him."

"I didn't." He looked at his watch. "Well, it's late. I'm going to get some shut-eye. Good night...Tara."

"Good night, Director." She watched Tim for a few more seconds. "Are you sure he won't try to leave?"

"Positive."

"How positive?"

Carew turned around and looked in her blue eyes...they were her mother's eyes...not his. "I'd trust him with your life." Then, he went into one of the bedrooms and closed the door.

Tara stood still. They rarely talked about their familial relationship. She hadn't discussed it with him when she had joined the CIA. She never referred to him as her father and so far as she knew, no one realized. They had strange conversations, always dancing around the fact that he was her father. It was almost as if the first twenty years of her life had never happened. She looked at Tim once more.

"You'd better be able to do this, Agent McGee," she said. There was no acknowledgment from the man in the wheelchair...whether because he really didn't hear her or because he just didn't want to speak to her, she didn't know...and she didn't really care. Carew had said that it was safe to trust him. ...so she trusted him and went to bed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim hadn't heard a word. He was in the zone. There were times when he hadn't even heard Abby talking and she always got mad at him for it...he pushed thoughts of Abby, of anyone he cared about, far away. He didn't want to think about them.

He was blocked...and blocked again. He _needed_ that access. _How am I going to get around it? The only other way to get to that satellite is through..._ Tim stopped. _No, I can't do that. I can't hack NCIS._ The very idea revolted him...but another voice, the emotionless voice, asked, _How else will you get that hookup? You can't do without it. The FBI has shored up its defenses too well._ Tim continued to fight with himself. _No, I can do it. The FBI has never been able to keep me out before._

Tim tried again...and again...and again. This hadn't been an issue last time. They already had the secret line tapped into the FBI satellites. He had just been required to use it. Now, he had to build the line again. He tried again...and was kicked out...again. They knew too much about him. _No! I can do this. I know how. It's right there. I just have to be more careful than usual. That's all._

The hours passed unnoticed. The sun had set. It was dark. Tim didn't notice. The lights of New York glittered through the windows. Tim didn't see. All he saw were the lines of code...endless lines of code that he was working through to secretly retask the satellites...to find two people. Whenever he began to weigh the logistics of what he was doing, he started to feel ill and he tried to ignore it.

There was a part of him that knew what Carew had meant, what the reason was for all this...but he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge it.

The night grew stale. Even New York City began to slow down...but it never completely stopped...and neither did Tim. He broke through the barriers to the FBI satellites at around four thirty in the morning. He then spent another five hours linking them into the swiftly burgeoning program. He vaguely noticed the presence of Tara and Carew behind him, but he didn't allow the observation to become conscious. He moved on...and on...even while his eyes blurred and his legs screamed with pain. He pushed everything aside and focused only on the machines, only on the program, only on the work.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"What's the car, Abby?"

"I'm working on it, Gibbs! There are about a billion choices you know, even if I get the paint solidly identified...which I have."

"What kind of car?"

"I don't know yet!" Abby shouted, finally losing patience. "It's two in the morning, Gibbs! I'm worried sick, but I can't make the machines run any faster...not even Tim could..." She turned back to the monitor. "I'll let you know."

"Abbs...I'm sorry." Gibbs put his hand on her shoulder and then caught Abby when she whirled around and flung herself into his arms.

"Gibbs, I don't want this to happen again!"

"It won't."

"You can't promise that. You can't promise anything. _I_ can't promise anything. _Tim_ can't promise anything...because he's _not here_!"

"No, Abby. I promise. This time, I'm promising. It won't happen."

Abby cried and soaked Gibbs' shirt with her tears.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

At around midnight, Tim collapsed, his body finally pushed beyond the limits, his legs screaming their discontent, his mind numb, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot...his nose bloody from striking the keyboard when he passed out.

Carew had been watching him...and he pushed the wheelchair, now holding an unconscious Tim, into the other bedroom. He carefully stopped Tim's bleeding nose and then maneuvered him out of the wheelchair and onto the bed. Gently, he elevated Tim's legs, making a note to have Tara check them out in the morning.

Then, Carew went to bed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Every Mouth Speaketh Folly**

Tim greeted the bright sunshine with a blinding headache. He couldn't decide if he hated the sun for shining or his head for pounding...maybe he'd just be an equal opportunity hater. He looked around and, as he strove to keep his head from falling off his shoulders, as the room spun around in circles...and put in a few jumps up and down...he realized that he was in a bed.

_When did I get into bed? I don't remember doing that. Did I finish? I don't think so. I don't remember stopping._ He sat up, holding his head as if it were made of delicate crystal. The headache was worse than that of a hangover. When he was confident that his head was not about to explode, he risked looking at the clock beside his bed. _Noon...of what day?_ Tim looked around, but there was no calendar...not that a calendar would help all that much to tell him exactly what day it was. As he moved, he looked and noticed that his legs were no longer in the hard plaster casts they had been...the last time he had looked at them. The plaster was gone. Instead, he had on two orthopedic walking casts covering what looked like soft splints. He looked at them in surprise, not just because they were unexpected...but because he knew, from personal experience, how loud the saws were that doctors used to remove plaster casts. He had slept through it.

Suddenly, it became more important than ever to figure out what day it was and how long he'd been asleep.

"Good afternoon, Agent McGee," Carew said, suddenly opening the door. "I thought thirty-six hours might do the trick."

"Thirty-six hours?"

"That's how long you were...asleep, although I would be more tempted to call it unconsciousness rather than actual sleep. How are you feeling?"

"When did you take off my casts?"

"Yesterday."

"Why?"

"You were in need of some...extra medical care."

Tim thought about asking what that was, but he decided that after his most recent medical experience, he didn't want to know. His head was pounding hard enough that he couldn't really do more than wince anyway.

"No witty retort? You _must_ be in a bad way. Well, working yourself half to death will do that to you. Hungry?"

"Did I finish?" Tim asked.

"No."

"I didn't think so."

"Hungry? You won't be able to finish at all if you don't take care of yourself."

Tim rolled his eyes at the parental tone and then moaned at the injudicious motion.

"I'll take that as a yes. Feel free to take your time getting ready." Carew turned to leave.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"What happened to my casts?"

"Oh, Tara had to remove them. You were already having trouble and she needed to check your blood circulation. Since you won't be doing a whole lot of walking any time soon, the boots are sufficient." At Tim's expression, he added, "She is a licensed M.D. and is very well trained to deal with such simple problems."

"What's her real name? I know it's not Tara..._or_ Kristine."

"I'm not sure _I_ know it anymore," Carew said with his usual faint smile. "Breakfast will be ready for you when you come out. I won't even force my company on you." He walked out, leaving Tim to his own thoughts.

Eventually, Tim felt stable enough to get back into the wheelchair and go to the bathroom. He gave a moment's thought to wondering how Carew and Tara had taken care of that very basic function while he was unconscious...but after that moment, he decided he didn't want to know. After taking care of business, he saw that there were clothes laying out for him: baggy pants that would fit over the soft casts and shirts ranging from t-shirts to button-down. Tim wasn't sure what to make of it. He decided not to think about it. It was easier and not worth the effort. Finally, his stomach rumbling impatiently, Tim rolled himself into the kitchen. As promised, there was breakfast waiting and no Carew. Where he was, Tim didn't know. In fact...

"Hello?" Tim called.

There was no response. The place felt empty. Had they really left him alone? Why? Why did they...or rather why did _Carew_ trust him so much? He doubted that Tara trusted him any more than he trusted her, but he didn't get why Carew was trusting him not to run...er, _roll_ away or even call NCIS. It wasn't that he didn't want to do just that. He just wasn't going to. He couldn't really explain it satisfactorily to himself...maybe because that would require some bitter self-reflection on his part and he wasn't sure that he was ready for it yet. As he helped himself to some extremely unexciting oatmeal and orange juice, his mind moved unwillingly to that morning six months ago when he had broken from of his chains.

"He hath loosed the fateful lightning," Tim whispered and looked across the room at the computers. What he had told Tara and Carew was true. There was too much potential for abuse in this program he was building...most of all by Tim himself.

_Revenge. I want revenge._ The thought came out of nowhere. Sure, it was important to catch them because of the fact that they could endanger not only innocent lives but also national security... _but even if that wasn't the case, I would do it anyway._

Tim pushed the thought away as he finished eating. He didn't want to think about the moral ambiguity of his current situation.

_How far did I get? I can't remember,_ Tim thought to himself. He wheeled over to the computers once more and confronted the screens. They were mocking him, the emptiness taunting him with the sheer magnitude of his task. Tim glanced at the phone but didn't pick it up. Instead, he flicked on the computers and searched for the last line of code he had completed. With a deep sigh, he began to work again, trying to build what he knew he would have to destroy...again.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"See? He won't leave, not until the job is done," Carew said from his vantage point in the condo next door.

"You don't have to be so smug," Tara retorted. "You also said that he'd have enough sense to stop before essentially putting himself into a coma for a day and a half."

"But look how far he got, working for three days."

"Yes, I see. I see very well. He nearly broke his nose when he keeled over, put himself into a coma, starved himself, and ruined the circulation in his legs forcing me to perform battlefield medicine on him."

"This is hardly a battlefield."

"It's hardly a hospital."

Carew shrugged. "He's also more than half done."

Against her will, a look of surprise...and grudging approval crossed her feature. "Really?"

"Really. Of course, he had the benefit of knowing basically what needed to be done anyway. ...and he's back at work again."

"So, will I have to nurse him back to health...again?"

"Possibly. He could have learned his lesson."

Tara sighed. "I doubt it."

"As do I, but it _is_ a possibility."

They looked at the monitor. Tim's fingers flew across the keyboard and his eyes blurred as they darted back and forth, reading the screen, creating the lines of code.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Those fingerprints match the ones we lifted from Kristine Blumell's apartment six months ago," Abby reported, her voice dull, her body expressing her exhaustion.

"Can you figure out what they did there?" Gibbs asked.

"Maybe, but don't you want to know about what _else_ I found?" she countered, a small twinkle in her eyes.

"What did you find?" This wasn't the usual bantering. It was far too intense for any lightheartedness.

Abby smiled, but without humor. "Paint. Tony gave me that scraping from the garage. Now, whether it was intentional, another planted piece of evidence, or not, it tells a few things. If that car is the one they took Tim in, we're looking for a Lexus, originally Noble Spinel Mica in color..." Gibbs looked blank. "...or red, painted the black we all know and love, the favorite shade of our CIA friends."

"Can you tell the model?"

"Only within a certain size range, based on the height of the scraping. It's not an SUV, and there are only two Lexus models that come in Noble Spinel Mica...as opposed to Matador Red Mica or Brandywine Mica or any other shade of red they use. It's either an LS Hybrid or the regular LS."

"That's good work, Abbs. Run facial recognition on the DMV database against both Tara and Carew."

"Already started. It will take a while...unless I get lucky."

"You'll do it," Gibbs said. Abby looked less certain. "We're going to get him back."

"What if he doesn't _want_ to come back, Gibbs?"

"He does," Gibbs said. He kissed her forehead and left. As the elevator rose to the bullpen, he replayed the conversation. There was no question that Tim hated being with Carew, but his stubborn insistence on staying with him even so smacked of something more. The doors opened onto the bullpen.

"Why are you still holding onto that silly picture?" Tony asked Ziva, not noticing Gibbs' approach.

"The same reason you are holding onto that quote from _Solaris_," she shot back.

"Why is that?"

"What do _you_ think?" she replied.

Neither wanted to admit the sentimentality that prompted them to hold onto Tim's attempts at communication.

"Abby's searching for the owner of our Lexus," Gibbs said, striding to his desk.

"Lexus?" Tony asked, acting as if the conversation had never happened.

"According to that paint you gave her."

"Ha! I _knew_ it was important!" Tony said, punching his fist into the air.

Gibbs rolled his eyes and Tony obligingly walked over to his desk and presented his head for slapping. Gibbs stared at him for a few seconds and then walloped him upside the head.

"Thanks, Boss."

"Until Abby figures out our car, the only thing we have is McGee's belief that they were heading for New York City. There's a BOLO out for his handler and Anderson. It's not likely to find them, but it's something."

"Is it enough?" Ziva asked.

Something about the way she said it reminded Gibbs of what Tim had said to him months ago, when they had been trying to take down Anderson's group. _"What if your best isn't good enough?"_

"Maybe. Maybe not. We won't know until we find him."

"_Will_ we find him?" Tony asked.

"Yes." Of that much Gibbs was certain...but whether Tim would be _alive_ when they found him...that was much less so.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

One more link up complete. One more line of code. One...more...

_I want to kill them. I want to kill them myself._

Another so-called closed circuit system brought in. Another system of street cameras.

_I want them to suffer as much as I have. I want them to pay for what they did._

One more satellite. One more server. One more...but there were always more to find.

_I want them to die._

Another link. Another line of code.

...another minute...another hour...another day...


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Death and Life are in the Power of the Tongue**

"I got it! I found him!" Abby said triumphantly, running into the bullpen.

"Abby, you could have simply told us," Ziva said.

"No, I couldn't! I found the Lexus! It's the LS Hybrid! Registered to a Dillon Brown." She brought up the driver's license image. "Remind you of anyone?"

Tony stood up. "Carew!"

"Yep. This is his car, the car that they used to transport Tim."

"License plate?"

"DGS-3865. New York plates."

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs ordered.

"BOLO, on it, Boss!"

"Include that we don't want anyone to approach. If we spook him, they'll be much more likely to move on again and we'll be back at square one."

"You want to include a picture?"

"Yes. Of both of them."

"Well...Boss..."

"Spit it out, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, getting right in his face.

"He's the director of the CIA. Won't that look a bit..."

"I don't care, DiNozzo. I want to know where he is and I want to get McGee back. To that end, I don't care what it looks like. Got it?"

"Got it, Boss."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

They'd had to forcibly drag him away from the computers...again. This time, Carew didn't wait for Tim to collapse. He watched him more carefully. He and Tara had forced him to eat, forced him to stop. Tim didn't really see them. He didn't listen to them. He had divorced himself from reality in an effort to get the work done within a reasonable timetable...something that would keep him from remaining in their company for any longer than he had to, something that would prevent him from contemplating his reasons for doing the work. He didn't speak...well, not to them anyway. He muttered lines of code to himself. Seeing his complete focus was actually a bit scary. They watched him with something akin to awe as he wheeled himself back to the computers after dinner of the second day of his new attempt.

"Agent McGee."

Tim paid them no attention. He began to type once more, this time focusing on the GPS systems. If he could tap into those, that would be a huge leap forward in his task.

"Agent McGee."

There were thirty-two satellites, all linked together. The system was used by the military and by civilians, but it was still a chore to add them to his swiftly burgeoning program. He'd spent the last day with cell phone towers.

Someone pulled him away from the computers, forcing him to think, forcing him to consider where he was and what he was really doing. He didn't want to. All he wanted was to work.

"Agent McGee, you need to sleep now."

The same someone wheeled him toward his bedroom. What good was sleep? All sleep did was give him time to reflect, time for his subconscious to berate him for doing what he knew was ambiguous at best. In his heart, he knew it was wrong. Against his will, he was removed from the wheelchair and placed in the bed. Then, the light went out and Tim lay in his bed...alone. But was he really alone? Not really. He was never alone. They were always watching, even when he didn't know it.

...and yet, he was truly alone, in the worst way possible. He was alone in his own head. When he wasn't working, all he could think about was what he had done, what he was doing.

Tim sat up in bed and drew his aching legs to his chest. That hurt, but he had to do it. The thought that had persisted in his head, beyond his desire for revenge, reared up and insisted on being recognized.

_I am setting people up to be killed._ Tim knew what Carew had meant when he said that his reasons for doing all this were the same as Tim's were. He knew it because he had to admit that he wanted revenge. So did Carew. Revenge for what, Tim wasn't sure, but if Carew was being honest, then it meant that these people had done something he wanted revenge for. They would disappear like he had...only forever because there was no doubt in Tim's mind that they would go the way of Griffen. ...but that wasn't the worst thing.

The worst thing was that he wanted it to be that way as well. He didn't want them to be arrested and put in prison. They had already proven that they could escape. He wanted them stopped in the only way that could be certain...by their deaths.

"What am I doing?" he asked aloud. "What have I done...to myself?" The tears threatened, but Tim wouldn't waste his time on useless emotions. He had dug this pit and now he had to lie in it. His body didn't seem to agree, however, and he had to swallow hard to get rid of the urge to cry. His eyes insisted on getting tear-filled. With a muttered curse, Tim swept one hand across his face and then lurched to the edge of the bed. They might _want_ him to sleep, to rest, but Tim knew that he wouldn't be able to really rest until this was all over...permanently. Any idea that sleep could truly be his before that was, quite frankly, ludicrous.

That thought firmly anchored in his head, Tim pushed himself back into his wheelchair and wheeled himself back to the computers. They had been locked down, but the lock was so simple to disengage that Tim almost laughed. Carew had chosen him because of his computer skills and yet he thought he could lock Tim out of the computers? Ridiculous.

The irony pounded itself into Tim's head as he began to work again. Eight months ago, when all this had started, his one thought had been regret at being forced to do the work. Now, all he wanted was to finish it. The tears pushed forward again, momentarily blurring his vision. He swallowed, pushed them back and continued to work.

...again, he didn't stop.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"No hits on the BOLO, Boss," Tony reported as soon as Gibbs raised his eyebrows that morning. "Yes, I've checked. Yes, I checked two minutes ago. No, I'm not mistaken. Yes, I slept. No, not enough. Am I missing anything?"

Gibbs smiled. "Only one thing, DiNozzo."

"What's that, Boss?"

Gibbs slapped the back of his head. "That."

"Thanks, Boss."

"Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs turned around with more than a hint of resignation at the sound of Cynthia's voice.

"Yes?"

"Director Shephard would like a word with you."

"I'm sure she does. I'll be up in a minute."

Cynthia thought about pressing the matter, but obviously decided that it wasn't worth the effort. She just walked back up the stairs.

Gibbs waited for a few seconds before following her. It wasn't that he was particularly annoyed at Jenny at the moment. It was just the principle of the thing.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Jethro, how is it going?" Jenny asked as soon as the door closed.

"We have a lead, but no hits so far. I'd like to go to New York and look around."

"Where would you start?"

"Back at the restaurant. That's where McGee disappeared from. There's got to be something we missed there."

"For how long?"

"Until we find him."

"Are you sure he's even still alive?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Because Carew wouldn't dispose of someone without cause."

Jenny cocked her head to the side. "Really."

"As much as I can gather about him shows it, Jen. He only kills when he personally decides it's necessary...and considering all the trouble he's gone through to keep McGee alive, I doubt his intention is to kill him."

"How very understanding of you, Jethro."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "Understanding? I want to kill him; he's forced McGee into an untenable position, and I'm not sure if McGee can take it."

"He's taken quite a bit, Jethro. He's strong enough to take a bit more."

"How much will be too much, Jen? It's taken months to get him anywhere close to his usual self. Now, he's being pushed back into a situation he wanted to leave behind." Gibbs paused. "How much do you know about what he did?"

Jenny's face closed. "More than you know."

Gibbs didn't respond. He just stared.

"Agent McGee made a full report to me about a month after he returned to work. It was required of him, but he requested that I not make the details known. I agreed with him that it wasn't necessary. Nor is it necessary now."

"Why not?"

"Jethro, what good can possibly come from you knowing exactly what McGee was forced to do for those people?"

"I might be able to figure out what's going to happen."

"Why? McGee is being held by Carew, not by his handler. Carew is more than likely not asking him to do the same things they forced him to do."

"How far is McGee willing to go, Director?"

"For what?"

"To catch his jailers."

"Based on what I know of his activities and his perception of his own involvement...I think he would be willing to go all the way. Whatever it takes...he'll do it."

"Even if it is against the law?"

Jenny hesitated. Tim's pained report of what he had done had spoken volumes about how he felt, but it was Tim himself who had made it explicit.

"_If I had died, Director, it would have been easier...but it would have been easiest if I had simply killed them."_

"_What do you mean, Agent McGee?"_

_The mask dropped over Tim's features. "I mean that this world would be a better place without them in it. ...I would feel better without them around."_

"_What do you want to do?"_

"_Nothing that I can do. I just want to go back to work here...and I hope that I never have to think about this again."_

"I don't know."

"Jen–"

"I said that I don't know. I do not know what Agent McGee might be willing to do to stop them now."

"Hazard a guess."

"It's possible."

"Possible?"

"Yes. Possible. Those two months changed him, Jethro...more than I think you realize. His gray area is probably about as large as yours is now."

Gibbs chose not to respond to that. Instead, he went back to his initial request. "Our investigation points to New York."

Jenny nodded. "Then, I guess you had better be there. Keep me informed."

"Will do, Director."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

There was just enough of Tim's reasoning skills left for him to put in a fallback. As the program neared completion, Tim knew that there was a chance Carew would keep control of it. That couldn't happen...so Tim inserted a line of code that would degrade the program every time it was used. Tim himself could reverse it, but the rest of the world would simply have to watch it dissolve. He also encrypted all the programming to make it more difficult for anyone to duplicate it.

Tara and Carew still watched him, Tara with mounting concern and Carew with the enigmatic expression he always used. He seemed unsurprised by Tim's actions.

Tim knew that the time was coming when he would finish...and he really would have to face the truth.

...but he wasn't sure he could bear it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: How Shall It Be Known What Is Spoken?**

"He's stuck."

"He'll figure it out."

"He might not."

"He will. He's almost done."

"But he's not there yet."

"It doesn't matter. Just knowing that he's nearly there will goad him into finishing."

"Such optimism. I would have thought that being the director of the CIA would burn that out of you."

"Some of us are just naturally blessed."

"Whatever."

"He doesn't have much left. You thought he was stuck before but he made it through."

"What makes you such an authority on what makes Agent McGee tick?"

"Just lucky."

"Why won't you ever answer my questions?"

"Why do you persist in asking questions you already know the answers to?"

Tara looked away, both from Carew and from the monitor. "Will he make it? Really."

"I have no doubt that he will."

"Nice that someone is confident."

"You know, just because he doesn't trust you doesn't mean you have to reciprocate the sentiment."

Tara rolled her eyes and left. Carew's face flickered only for a moment as he watched Tim begin to type again.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Boss, what do you think we'll find?" Tony asked as they neared New York city.

"Probably nothing."

"Then, why are we here and not back at NCIS?" Ziva asked.

"Because I think that Carew wants us here."

"Then, isn't this the _last_ place that we should be?"

Traffic slowed to a crawl and Gibbs took the opportunity to look at Tony. "You're operating under the assumption that Carew is the bad guy."

"Isn't he?" Tony asked. "He took McGee. He's making him work for him in exchange for fixing something that should _never_ have needed fixing in the first place. And what guarantee do we have that he didn't let McGee's handler go in the first place?"

"No guarantee."

"But he has not lied," Ziva said. She wasn't being sympathetic, only honest. "He requested a chance to speak with McGee. He said he would not tell us everything. He has not _hurt_ McGee. Perhaps he is not going to at all."

"Carew is despicable," Tony said. "I don't care how you dress it up. He is _using_ McGee, and using him in a way that is too much like how his handler did. No wonder everyone thinks the CIA is corrupt. Look who's _leading_ it!"

Traffic inched forward and for a few moments, everyone was quiet.

"I don't care about stopping Carew," Gibbs said into the silence.

"What?"

"I don't care about stopping him. I care about one thing."

"What's that?"

"Stopping McGee."

"Stopping _McGee_?" Tony asked in surprise.

"I don't care what Carew does. His goal appears to be reclaiming his prisoners. That's his right, his responsibility. What I care about is stopping McGee before he does something that will..."

"...that will destroy him," Ziva finished quietly.

"McGee wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't what, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, pushing the gas pedal down and accelerating. The cars around him seemed to move by the force of his emotion. "Wouldn't be tortured? Wouldn't be kidnaped? Wouldn't be forced to work for a splinter group of the CIA? Wouldn't lie to us for two months? Wouldn't be an accessory to more murders than Jeffery Dahmer? Tell me, DiNozzo, what is it that McGee wouldn't do?"

Traffic slowed again and Gibbs slammed on the brakes. Tony and Ziva braced themselves to keep from flying out the windshield. No one spoke. Another half hour passed in silence.

"The old McGee wouldn't do anything we'd have to worry about, Tony," Gibbs said finally. "But he's not the old McGee anymore."

"Boss, he hated what they made him do."

"Yes, he did...but I think there's something he hates more."

"What's that?"

"Them."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The program was almost done. Tim could see it. He knew that he was close. The problem was that what he had left was nearly impossible. Nearly. There were hundreds of reconnaissance satellites in orbit. Not all of them belonged to the US. China had some. So did Russia, India, Canada, Turkey...others. He was almost positive that his handler had not left the country, but what if he was wrong? He could leave them out...but at the same time, he couldn't. For all that he hated what he was doing, he couldn't leave the job half-done...or even ninety-five percent done. They weren't the biggest problems, however. His biggest problem was not a satellite. His biggest problem was a single building and the information contained within it.

The NSA. Like the obelisk in _2001_, the black ebony building at Fort Meade in Maryland loomed up in his mind. The NSA with its wiretapping, eavesdropping...it was a repository of information that he needed to have to complete the program. Last time, they had the connection. He had only been required to solidify it and add it in. Now, he was going to have to break into the NSA. The people who worked there were listeners. The NSA had its own exit ramp off the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. For years, its very existence was denied. Even more than the CIA, the NSA was a mystery...and Tim had to break in.

His hands started to shake. It wasn't with weakness. It wasn't because of the enormity of the task. It was because of the long list of crimes running through Tim's mind. If he had been charged, he would have had a longer rap sheet than most career criminals. Sometimes, Tim wondered who in the world he was. He couldn't rid himself of the feeling that someone else had taken control of his mind and body. This wasn't him sitting in the wheelchair. It wasn't Timothy McGee helping to track down and kill people. It couldn't be. It had to be someone else.

Gradually, he became aware that he was hyperventilating. Tim closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down, to breath in and out slowly. He wouldn't get anywhere by freaking out now. He couldn't do that, not at the finish line. Another slow steady breath dispelled the fear, the self-recriminations. The mask descended across his features. It felt steady there and it was easier to put on every time.

Tim began to work again. The NSA had to be approached cautiously, more cautiously than he had ever done so before. His hands still shook as he typed, but he ignored them. Every inch of his attention was on hacking the NSA.

And hack them, he did...seven hours later. He was in and tiptoeing around the NSA...and sweating bullets. An ironic thought occurred to him as he set about stealing their access: _What if they track me down? Will they try to hire me, too?_ The thought stretched his mouth into a caricature of a smile. Carefully, he began to set up their eavesdropping hardware and software to report back to his program. It was a stealth program, and Tim only hoped that it was stealthy enough.

"Come on," he whispered. "I'm not here. You don't see me." He leaned closer to the screen and tapped a few more keys. "Almost there. You're listeners, not watchers. I'm not making a sound. I don't exist." Another sequence of keystrokes. "Good."

Another hour passed as Tim slowly, methodically made his links. As carefully as he had entered, he withdrew once more, leaving only the links behind. Then...without any fanfare, Tim realized he was done. He sat back and blinked at the computer. He hesitated and looked around. No one was there. Oh, they were most certainly _watching_, but they weren't there at that moment. He looked out the window and saw that it was dark outside. Another day was over. He had to test it, to see if he'd done everything right. The plain fact of the matter was that he didn't remember a lot of the work he had done. It was all a mishmash of work and pain. So...a test run was probably a very good idea.

"Who should I find?" he asked himself. It was a silly question. There was only one option really. Tim brought up the search and typed in a few names. He put in _Washington, D.C. _as the starting location. To his surprise, only three of the names showed successful searches._ Abigail Sciuto_ was still at NCIS Headquarters._ Donald Mallard_ was at his home. _James Palmer_ was in his apartment. No one else. A thought occurred to him and he went back to the initial search, changing the starting location to _New York City_. It didn't take long for the three names to pop up on a grid, all in the same location. Tim zoomed in...and zoomed in again. _Anthony DiNozzo, Ziva David, Leroy Jethro Gibbs_. They were all in a hotel near the UN. They were here, in New York. They were looking for him. They were trying to help him.

Tim wanted so badly to contact them. He had called Kristine..._Tara_ when they had been in danger. Now, he wanted to call his friends. He wanted to talk to them. He wanted them to know that he was alive. He wanted to know that they didn't think that he had switched sides, that he was evil.

_I'm not. I'm not evil. I made a deal. I explained it to them as best I can. It's...They care. That's why they're here. They're trying to find me. I know it._

...and look what he had been doing. Immediately, Tim shut down the program. Tony, Ziva and Gibbs disappeared, and Tim wheeled himself away from the computers at breakneck speed. He bypassed his bedroom and went into the bathroom. Once inside, he locked the door, nearly threw himself into the bathtub, his legs hanging limply over the edge, and turned on the tap. Water cascaded over him and he began to sob.

The team was there to save him.

_I'm not worth saving._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: They Have Taught Their Tongue to Speak Lies**

"Any sign of them?"

"None so far. In fact, your friend has completely dropped off the map."

"What?"

"Not in the hospital. Not in his apartment. He has effectively disappeared."

"So has _your_ friend."

"Coincidence?"

"Unlikely."

"Will this mess up our timetable?"

"Possibly."

"Then, we had better speed things up a bit."

"This wouldn't have happened if–"

"Maybe. Maybe not. You don't know him like I do. He is fired by the strangest things and blase about events that most people would protest."

"Even so..."

"Yes, you're right. That did change things."

"And?"

"Nothing. We proceed as planned, only slightly faster. He has served as a welcome distraction, don't you think?"

"Maybe we should thank him."

"Not until the deal is done. Besides, you'd have to find him first."

"I found him before."

"You did."

"I can find him again."

"Later."

"Later?"

"Yes. Later."

The word was a promise.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_"They've been most insistent, sir."_

Carew smiled. "I'm sure they have been. Tell them I am out of town and unavailable."

_"But, sir!"_

"Just tell them. You are not lying. I _am_ out of town, and I am not available to speak to anyone at NCIS. I am much too interested in preserving my own life."

_"Sh-should I tell them that, sir?"_

The tech was so young that Carew couldn't help laughing. "No...wait, yes, do tell them that. They already know the basics anyway. They must or they wouldn't keep asking for me. You can't give them any details because you don't know where I am...do you?"

_"No, sir. I don't."_

"Exactly. You can't tell them what you don't know. You only know what I have told _you_, and that isn't enough to track me down. Is it?"

_"No, sir."_

"Good. Then, that should be all."

_"Wait, sir...what if I..."_

Carew grinned and disconnected. So young. So innocent in the ways of politics. The door opened and Tara came in, a worried look on her face. She had stopped bothering to hide her feelings when they were alone. She knew that Carew would catch the faintest glimmer anyway. Why waste everybody's time?

"He's still locked in the bathroom. The water is running again."

"Cold or hot?" Carew asked congenially.

"This isn't funny! He finished his program, but _I_ can't make it work. Can you?"

"Possibly."

"He hasn't come out of there for hours! Why won't you let me go in?"

Carew's face was serious, a huge change from his usual enigmatic expression. His dark eyes held hers. "Because he will come out when he is ready. No sooner."

"He could be in danger in there, you know. He might not be thinking straight."

Carew laughed. "Thinking straight? Most certainly not. Thinking straight is probably the last thing he wants to do."

"Some day, you'll tell me why it is that you know all this about him."

"But not today, my dear."

She turned to leave...but stopped. "Did something like this happen to you? You've never said how you got started."

"And I'm not about to start now." Not even a flicker in his expression.

For just an instant, the control slipped. "No wonder Mom got tired of you." Then, she left.

Carew sat down, the mask _he_ employed never slipping, not even while he was alone. It had been a part of him for so many years that it was harder to show _any_ emotion now. He felt the emotions, but he did not show them.

He knew one thing that would automatically bring Tim out of this funk, but he wasn't willing to employ it. Actually, there were two things he could do. One, he wouldn't do on principle. The other? Well, he couldn't do that one because of what still remained to be done. As taxing as it had been, the program was the easy part. Searching for them...finding them. That would be much harder for a man like Tim. The question was whether or not Tim himself would realize that before it was too late. Many didn't...and they paid the price for it. If it were possible, it would be nice if he could shield Tim from that moment of realization, but he would not sacrifice success at the altar of pity.

Yes, he understood Tim. He had used that understanding to get him to this point...and he would continue to use his understanding to finish the job. Nothing else mattered.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"You find anything?" Tony asked from one end of the alley.

"There is nothing to find, Tony. You know it. I know it. Gibbs knows it," Ziva growled. They had been searching the alley in much the same manner as they had when Tim had shot Benedict a few years ago. Ziva was annoyed and Tony was following orders.

"Of course, I know it...but that doesn't mean we won't find anything," Tony said, smiling winningly.

"It has been _weeks_, Tony. Gibbs has sent us here on a fruitless errand. Where is he?"

Tony shrugged. "I have no idea. Off stopping McGee from making a big mistake?"

"He does not know where McGee is. If he did, _we_ would be there as well."

"Did you ever stop to consider, Ms. David, that Gibbs has a good reason for sending us out here?"

"Yes. He wishes to annoy me," she said and turned back around.

"Well, I'm sure that's a bonus," Tony replied, grinning. He resumed his painstaking examination of the ground.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs did have a reason for sending them to the alley: desperation...although he'd never admit to it, not even to himself. He didn't know what to do, and he hated the feeling. Sending Ziva and Tony out to find evidence made it seem as though they were doing something, not simply waiting...as he knew they were. They were at the mercy of Carew and Tara...and Tim. That trio held the cards, and Gibbs was supposed to wait in the wings until his cue came up. Of that, he was certain. He was also certain that if he had said that to anyone, they would have been as angry and annoyed as Tony had been. Jenny would not have given him permission to come to New York. Gibbs would not be sitting at a computer trying to make it work correctly, missing both Abby and Tim and wishing that one of them were there to tell him what to do.

This was one time when he was willing to be where someone else wanted him to be because he knew that the alternative (waiting back in DC for something to come up) would more than likely lead either to Tim's death or to his breakdown.

He glared at the computer screen. It was telling him that the security certificate for the site he was trying to access was invalid. He knew he could simply call Abby and ask her what to do, but sometimes, he got annoyed at being forced to rely on the younger generation for computer help. He had a few options for the site he was trying to access. He could refuse to go to the site, which this computer recommended, or he could continue to the site, which was _not_ recommended. Finally, he decided that the computer didn't know anything. He wasn't going onto some porn site. He was trying to get to his NCIS email. He knew he could login through the NCIS website, but he hadn't expected to have something like this come up. He clicked on the link to continue to the site and was annoyed to see the address turn red as it loaded. He nearly growled but refrained from doing so when the site loaded as it should.

This was all so much easier at NCIS. He had about thirty unread emails. He'd gotten better about reading them lately, but that still wasn't enough to dent the mass. That didn't particularly matter right now because Gibbs wasn't logged in to read emails. He was there to _send_ one. The window opened and he sat staring at the blank space. This might not even make a difference. He had no idea if he was trying to help himself or someone else.

_Nothing ventured, nothing gained._

That thought in mind, Gibbs started to type. The message was short. There really weren't words for what he wanted to say, but that mattered less than he had thought it would. He finished and sent it out. Satisfied, Gibbs logged out, and stepped away from the computer.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim wasn't in the bathtub anymore. He hadn't been for hours. Oh, he had stayed in there for about an hour, but soaking wet clothes had a way of making even the most miserable person pay attention.

So, currently, he was laying supine on the floor, his legs propped up on the edge of the bathtub, his hands folded across his chest. He hadn't been doing much of anything, thinking or otherwise over the last few hours. He had heard Tara come to the door a couple of times, but he had no interest in speaking to her and so he didn't...and yet, he couldn't help but think about their date. She had been so friendly, so seemingly open and honest. She had been a refreshing change from his previous choices.

Or so he had thought. She turned out to be the worst of the lot, bar none. Not even the psycho he had dated who ruined his credit rating had been that bad. He'd never dated someone whose only goal in mind was to kidnap him and torture him. A wry smile crossed his face. She was definitely unique.

The smile faded as the thought that had risen in his mind a few times already came back for a repeat performance. He had to decide what his goals were...really decide, not just let them happen and then play as if he had no control. He did have control.

_What am I going to do when the time comes?_ It was definitely a _when_ situation. Now that the program worked, it was only a matter of time before he found them. There were two halves of him right now. One half was telling him to get out now. The other half was telling him to do whatever it took. The problem was that the whole of him wanted this to be over, never to be repeated. He had hoped that was the case the last time...but he'd been wrong. He looked at his broken legs. He couldn't remember anything beyond seeing that car, the headlights boring into his brain.

_Welcome back, Timmy._

The voice floated up from nowhere. Tim blinked. His handler had been there...just before the car, just before he'd felt the crunch of the bones in his legs breaking. She hadn't spoken, but he'd seen her. That's why he had stopped moving. The shock. She had said those words as he lay in agony on the ground, just before he'd passed out. He could see her face, the sadistic smile. His hands clenched into tight fists and his nails dug into his palms. The tension spread to his arms, to his shoulders, his back, his stomach.

_Whatever it takes,_ his mind said. There was no more opposition. People like that didn't deserve to live. They didn't deserve the justice they had stolen from too many others. They had never showed mercy. He wouldn't show mercy either. What good had mercy done him? He had shown mercy to Tara and here she was again. People just walked all over him because he was a nice guy. He was understanding. That didn't help. It never did.

The guilt was buried beneath a rising tide of anger and hatred. The pain of his legs breaking, the horror from the atropine trip, the burning light, the fear...the neverending fear of repetition. He wouldn't take it. He wouldn't take it again. He would not allow himself to be destroyed by them.

_I'll find them and they'll have to face me. They won't be afraid, not at first, but they will be. They'll feel the kind of fear I felt._

Tim sat up, gently maneuvering himself back to a sitting position on the edge of the tub. He reached out and pulled the wheelchair over to him in a smooth motion. Just as smoothly, the mask took possession, not just of his face but of his mind. He squashed the emotions completely, leaving only the desire for vengeance, the anger. That would sustain him until...

..._no, no until. Focus on the task at hand. There is nothing else in the world._

Back in the wheelchair again, Tim wheeled himself over to the door and opened it. Then, he went out and over to the computers. Once there, he set up the automatic search. He'd have to do some fine-tuning himself, but if either of them showed up anywhere in the system, he'd get a ping.

He suddenly realized that it was morning. He'd stayed in the bathroom the whole night. He was hungry. Without thinking, Tim logged into the NCIS site and checked his email. It was an automatic reaction to being at his computer. He did it every morning. It was only as the page was loading that he realized how silly it was to think that he should check his work email.

To his surprise, he had an email from Gibbs sent that morning. Confusion peaked through his hardened mind. Why would Gibbs be emailing him when he knew that Tim wasn't around to check his email? He clicked on the email.

_McGee,_

_We're in New York. We're looking for you. Don't do anything you don't have to do. Right now, you might be feeling as though you have to kill them. You don't. You're smarter than that. Think about what will happen in the future._

_Gibbs_

Tim was clenching his teeth. Guilt rose up breaking through the anger, the hatred, breaking through the mask. It was too much. He couldn't face it. He reached out to delete the message and found that he couldn't.

_Gibbs deserves to know my decision._ Why, Tim wasn't sure, but he did. Quickly, he replied.

_Boss,_

_There is no other option. I see it now. I see it so clearly. I don't care if I lose my job. I don't care if I go to prison. I'm going to stop them. They're never going to hurt another person. They're never going to take away another human life. Never. I'm going to stop them._

_McGee_

Then, he logged off and went to eat breakfast.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Thy Speech Shall Be Low out of the Dust**

There was a part of Tim that still knew what he had decided was the wrong decision...or at least that the "no holds barred" attitude he had adopted was wrong. There should always be a place beyond which a man would not go. However, that part was being steadfastly ignored because subconsciously, Tim knew that if he examined his limits, he would realize that he was willing to go too far, that he was turning into the people he hated. His mind wouldn't tolerate the realization, not when he had no one to lean on to help him, not when his only company were people who had already gone beyond the point of no return.

So he cultivated the anger and the hatred, the blind rage, the white-hot fury. He already knew he was capable of assisting in the death of innocents. Killing two pieces of excrement should pose no great difficulty. Those experiences would see him through this time. Maybe they would keep him from shattering into a million pieces like tempered glass...but that small insistent part was afraid that it would only hasten the deconstruction.

Tara and Carew noticed the change from the moment Tim left the bathroom. There was no more of the hesitation, the loathing...at least not for them. They had become a mere backdrop against which he was fighting. The people he really wanted to get were the two who were responsible for his current predicament...at least at one remove. They didn't have to force him to stop working anymore. They didn't have to urge him to sleep, to eat. He did it himself.

Tim moved systematically across New York City. The automatic search had come up with nothing, which he had expected. Instead, he was moving across the city, sector by sector. It was a tedious task, but he kept at it with single-minded intensity, but he stopped in the evening. He was the picture of rationality.

A picture, but a picture is not the real thing. It is a moment frozen in time. It can't change. Try to change the picture and it is destroyed. Even though Tim himself couldn't see it, or refused to see it, it was obvious to Carew that he was teetering on the edge of a complete breakdown.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"That wasn't McGee," Tony said. "It couldn't have been. He wouldn't talk like that. McGee beat himself up when he wasn't even sure if he'd killed a guy!"

Ziva put down the email and stood up, towering over Tony's forlorn figure, ignoring Gibbs who wasn't speaking anyway. She'd had enough.

"Tony, when are you going to accept that McGee is not the same man he was? He has changed! Do you understand? People change! We do not sit in...static...stase...stasis and never change! McGee is not the same! Do you understand? Do you comprehend what that means? The McGee we knew before would not have helped kill people. He would not have successfully lied to us for two months. He would not have been afraid to leave NCIS!" She didn't give Tony a chance to speak as she continued to rage. "Even if we find him and 'save' him, he may not be the same as he was even a month ago. We may never get him back. McGee may be lost whether he has died or whether he has destroyed himself! Get it?"

"That's enough, Ziva," Gibbs said.

Ziva whirled around to confront Gibbs and he could see her eyes glistening.

"We can't think like that."

"Why not? Why is it a problem to face a probable outcome?"

"Because if we do, we are thinking like McGee is thinking. _When_ we find him, he is going to need our help to break out of this without breaking down. If we reject him, he won't make it."

"It looks to me like–"

"No," Tony said. "No, don't even say it, Ziva. Don't even _think_ it. He hasn't. Not yet. No one has died yet. We'll find him."

"Why?"

"Because Carew wants us to," Gibbs said.

"What?"

"Carew wants us here and he will want us whenever they find these people."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I get what he's doing. He's leading us along, giving us just enough information to get us in the vicinity, but not enough to lead us to McGee. He's not leaving us without hope, but he's keeping the essentials hidden. Carew has a plan, and we're a part of that plan, like it or not."

"I do _not_ like it," Ziva said firmly. "McGee has been in their hands before."

"How do you suggest we get him out of their hands now, Ziva? Unless we get a hit on the BOLO..."

"Unlikely," Tony muttered.

"...we don't stand a chance of finding him. There are eight million people in New York City at any given time. We are looking for one man, one man we can't even depend on people having seen. We can't eliminate any section of the city because, as the director of the CIA, Carew can get in a lot of places. We can't do a house by house search. It would take too long. Once Carew got him here, McGee wouldn't even necessarily go outside at all. Where do you suggest we search?"

"Then, really, we're only here to wait for a call," Tony said. "That's a really bad..."

"Yes, it is, DiNozzo...but I don't have any better ideas. Do you? At least this way, we'll be close by when the call comes. And it _will_ come."

"So...we wait," Ziva said softly.

"Yes. We wait."

"I hate waiting."

Gibbs smiled. "So do I."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Griffen is dead."

"No big surprise there."

"No, but I _am_ surprised that it took us this long to find out."

"There's no body."

"No questions?"

"Of course not. It's the CIA."

"Is the meeting still on schedule?"

"Yes. Tomorrow, we meet with them."

"They _are_ our allies."

"Even allies spy on each other...and other things."

"I was more worried about the possibility of betrayal. We're a precious commodity."

"One that the CIA would rather not see come to light."

"True."

"Let's not make more problems than we already have."

"Facing up to possibilities is not making more problems. It's preventing them."

"Did you find Timmy yet?"

"No."

"Then, we have a problem. The odds of betrayal from our buyers is much less than the odds that young Agent McGee is looking for us."

"That's not a worry."

"Maybe it should be. He stopped us before."

"Only because he had help. He couldn't have done it on his own. He's too soft. He didn't even kill me when he had the chance. He's always been the weak link."

"Until he broke the entire group."

"Because he had _help_!"

"What makes you think he doesn't have help now?"

"Because I know where his team is. They're here in New York City."

"What, you want to take them out?"

"It would eliminate a worry."

"No. Too many variables. By tomorrow night we'll be out of the country. We can disappear."

"Fine, but if we get the chance, we'll give Timmy the thanks he deserves."

"Agreed."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_Don't let them kill me!"_

"_I'm innocent!"_

"_Not my daughter...please, kill me, but let her live!"_

"_Dear God save me!"_

"_No! Mahmoud! No!"_

"_Help! Someone! Anyone! I beg of you!"_

Eyes open, chest heaving, Tim sat up, feeling the pain as he dragged his injured legs up to his chest. His cheeks were wet with tears. He hadn't had that dream in weeks. He hadn't heard them begging for mercy in a long time. Now, they were back, the blood running down into the gutters, the twisted broken bodies, the hopeless cries. The people he had helped kill.

Furiously, he wiped away the tears. Soon, he'd get them the justice they deserved. Soon, the people who had wanted them dead would be dead themselves. He looked at the clock. It was five a.m. He'd slept long enough. He heaved himself out of the bed and into the wheelchair, wheeling himself swiftly back into the main room. He began to work, pushing everything else away and letting himself fall into the rhythm of the search. New York City had over 26,000 people per square mile. It took time for the searches to work through each block. He was getting close, though. He could feel it. He could smell them.

A hand touched his arm and he straightened, snarling, "Don't touch me!"

"Very well." The hand withdrew.

"What do you want, Carew?"

"You're up early."

The statement was so untoward that Tim actually stopped working and wheeled himself around. There was no change in Carew's expression. He looked as he always did, but it was unlike him to actually seem to care.

"So?"

"What's the rush?"

"Stopping some murderers. What about you?"

That faint smile made Tim want to punch him in the face. "Possibly the same thing. Possibly something else."

"Do you ever answer a question straight?"

"Rarely."

"What do you want?"

"You interrupted my slumber. I was merely curious."

"Fine. Be curious somewhere else."

"Oh, but that would be quite impossible, Agent McGee, seeing as the only curiosity within this building happens to be sitting across from me."

The rage was building up. "I'm not a circus attraction. You can't pay twenty-five cents to see the Elephant Man."

"No, but you do excite my curiosity."

"Go away. You're always watching me anyway. At least give me the illusion that you're gone."

"Agent McGee, you seem a little...off."

Something inside Tim snapped. It wasn't the full breakdown, but the irony of the statement, the sheer extremity of the understatement was too cruel to bear.

"Off? _Off?_" Tim was panting even though he hadn't done anything remotely physically strenuous in days. "My legs are broken. I am..." He aborted that line of thought before he could express it. "...I have been stuck with you and your charming daughter for days, doing _your_ dirty work, trapped in a wheelchair, forced to deal with..." Again, he stopped it. "...You think I'm merely _off_?" The laugh that Tim let out was heavily-laced with insanity. He seemed to realize where he was headed and stopped. "You have no idea what's going on in my head. Even if you do, I don't want to hear it. I...am working. Go away." He turned the wheelchair back and began to type furiously.

Tim could feel Carew behind him, not leaving, and it made him more angry. He could have sworn that his temperature was rising in time with his intensifying anger. Finally, just as Tim was ready to turn and either punch the computer screens or Carew's grinning face, the presence receded and Tim was alone. Well, _ostensibly_ alone. He didn't kid himself that he was ever really alone.

"There's always someone watching," he said. He worked...hard. Very hard. Sector by sector, minute by minute, hour by hour. The anger was so intense that he had to work or he'd explode. He honestly had no idea how to deal with the anger, and he couldn't understand it...he didn't _want_ to. He just wanted it to carry him through, knowing that he was walking a tightrope without a net. He had almost fallen when he was talking to Carew. He had felt himself. That wild laughter had been the harbinger of danger.

_Don't think. Work. No thought, just the search. Nothing else._ The mental chant pulled his mind away from the disturbing thoughts and emotions and focused it back on finding the people whose fault everything was.

_Ping!_

Tim blinked. There, on the screen in front of him, were two symbols marking the locations of the people he'd been searching for.

"I found you. You're mine," he said...and for a moment wondered at the sound of his own voice. He hadn't recognized it at all.

...but that didn't matter. He had found them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: There Was Silence And I Heard a Voice**

"Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

"All right. No sense in hanging around here."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim didn't tell Carew right away. He pressed a few keys and encrypted the program. Then, he headed to the bedroom and changed his clothes. As he headed back out, he nearly ran over Tara and subsequently nearly spilled himself onto the floor in his effort to stop. In his head, he wondered why he had bothered to stop. Why did he care?

"Watch where you're going," he said, his voice flat.

"I could say the same thing to you. Just because you're in a wheelchair doesn't mean that you are the ruler of the place."

Tim just stared at her without answering. He couldn't believe that he had ever found her attractive or kind. He couldn't believe that he had been so taken in by her. He started to wheel away.

"It was a job, you know. Nothing personal."

Tim stopped. He didn't turn around to see her.

"We both have jobs that require us to do difficult things. Sometimes, people get hurt. Surely, _you_ are aware of that. It's not personal."

Tim still didn't turn around. "Funny, but I never kidded myself that the people I hurt didn't take it very personally. I suppose that's what makes us different."

"You're not that different."

Tim turn the chair so quickly that, again, he nearly threw himself out of it. "I am _not_ like you. Never say that again. I am not you. I am _nothing_ like you. I would never do what you did to me. Never. If I have to see you again in my life, it will be too soon."

Tara looked frankly skeptical. "You're trying to say that you wouldn't get revenge on me if you could?"

"You keep forgetting that I already had the chance...and I didn't. I won't pretend that I don't regret it, but I made the choice already." Tim began to turn around.

"Pitiful. That's why they keep using you, you know. You ask for it."

"Not for long." Tim rolled into the main room. "Carew, I found them."

Carew materialized, as if by magic. "Where?"

"No."

"No, what?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Why not?"

"You have to take me with you...and give me a gun."

Tara let out a snort of disbelief. "I don't think so."

"Do you want to catch them or not?"

"Why, Agent McGee?" Carew asked.

"You told me that we are doing this for the same reason. You shouldn't need to ask."

"Are you willing to let them get away just so you can be there?"

"Are _you_ willing to let them get away just to keep me here?"

Tim and Carew stared at each other for a long moment. Then, Carew nodded.

"Tara," he said, not moving his eyes from Tim's, "get Agent McGee a gun."

"What?"

"See that it is loaded, please."

Tara said nothing, but Tim heard her leave the room.

"Now, where are they?"

"No."

"I'm doing as you ask."

"Forgive me, if I doubt your sincerity. I don't trust you. I've set up the laptop to hook into the program remotely. That way, we can follow them once they get on the move...and they will be."

Tara came back with a loaded Sig. Tim checked the clip, slipped it into his pocket, grabbed the laptop and looked expectantly at the two of them. If they didn't know any better, he would have seemed merely interested in where they were going next. But deep in his eyes, they could see the anger and loathing. His eyes always had given him away.

"Let's go, then, Agent McGee," Carew said and grasped the handles of the wheelchair to push Tim out to the car. "Tara? If you would be so kind."

Tara rolled her eyes and called down for their car. They all went down.

"Mr. Brown, where to, today?" Davis asked.

"I want to see some of the city," Tim said, smiling. "They're going to take me on a driving tour since I can't do any of the walking right now."

Davis looked appropriately sympathetic. "Well, New York City is beautiful in its own way, even from a car."

"So I've been told," Tim said. He set the laptop on the seat beside him and then allowed Carew to help him into the car. Tara got in on the passenger side and then Carew shook Davis' hand and left.

"So, where are we going, Agent McGee?" Carew asked.

Tim opened the laptop and reacquired the location of his handler. "Head toward...Fredrick Douglass Circle."

"By Central Park?"

"Yes."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"We got a hit on the BOLO, Boss!" Tony announced.

"Where?"

"Near Central Park."

They all grabbed their gear and ran out the door.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Why here?"

"Because it's out of the way...but it's also public enough for security."

"Security for whom? Us or them?"

"Either."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim pushed himself through the park. The laptop was on his lap, and he was watching the two markers moving.

"That way."

"Toward the Ravine. It gets a bit hilly in that area."

Tim ignored the statement, but he did hear it.

"They're down there. That's where I'm going. Coming?" Tim looked up at them again.

Tara shrugged. She looked unconcerned, whether she was or not. Carew smiled. The three of them set off for the Ravine.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"This is the car!" Ziva confirmed. "Where are they?"

Tony noticed a person sitting on a bench. He ran over. "Hey, have you noticed three people going into the park?"

The woman looked up at Tony, annoyed. "Do you have any idea how many people go in and out of this park in an hour?"

"Nope. No clue," Tony replied. He pulled out his badge. "I'm NCIS, a federal agent. One of the people I'm looking for would probably be hurt."

She had been staring at the badge, but then she looked up again. "In a wheelchair?"

"Possibly."

"You have a picture?"

Tony pulled out a photo of Tim.

"That could be him."

"With two others? An older man and a woman?"

"Yeah. They came through here a few minutes ago."

"Did you see what direction?"

"Kind of...southwest. Maybe toward the Loch or the Ravine?"

"Thanks." Tony jerked his head toward the park. Gibbs and Ziva abandoned the car and the three of them started running.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"They're late."

"Of course, they are. They're probably walking around casually, pretending that they're not headed toward a clandestine meeting with two defectors."

"Whatever. I don't like things that aren't on schedule."

"Deal with it."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Where now?" Carew asked.

"They've stopped," Tim said, his heart racing...and not just from pumping his way through Central Park. They were on West Drive. "This path will get us there." Now that the moment of retribution was upon them, the antagonism was gone. They were working together toward a common goal...even if it had different tendrils.

...or so Tim thought. As they got closer, he felt his speed increase. Carew took a hold of the handles, slowed Tim down and then unceremoniously dumped him off the trail. Tim went tumbling and ended up against a tree. He saw the wheelchair tip over about twenty feet from him. Carew and Tara continued their run, not even looking back. Just before they went out of sight, Tim saw them separate.

Something in his head seemed to explode. They didn't care about him at all. All they wanted was their revenge. Tim would be left alone, uncertain...afraid. No justice. Nothing. He wouldn't let that happen.

"No," he whispered, his throat nearly closed with his rage, now unfocused. There was no one who didn't deserve it. He launched himself forward toward his chair. The pressure he put on his legs was nearly unbearable...or it would have been if he hadn't been so angry. The pain only served to fuel his fury, one more piece of evidence of all that had been done to him. They used him and then threw him away. He nearly ran the last few feet to his chair. In seconds, it was upright, on the trail and flying with Tim trying desperately to catch up, to see what happened...to _know_.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Excuse me, NCIS, have you seen three people coming past here? A man in a wheelchair accompanied by a woman and an older man?" Ziva asked. When the person hesitated, she quickly lost her pseudo-patience. "I do not have time to answer your questions. Have you seen this man?" She held up a picture of Tim.

"I saw a guy in a wheelchair with two others, but they weren't coming this way."

"Where were they going?" Gibbs asked. "Quick! Where?"

"Down toward the Ravine."

"Thank you."

They ran off again. In moments, however, they didn't need to ask for anymore help. They could hear the gunshots.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim threw the laptop aside. It didn't matter anymore. He could _see_ them. He could see _her_. His gun was suddenly in his hand. She was firing at Tara. Part of Tim was cheering her on. Traitor that Tara was. Couldn't trust anyone. Then, Tim was flying out of the wheelchair when it hit a rock. His hand clenched the gun tightly as he rolled over and over, coming to a stop, dazed at the edge of the trail.

She looked at him. His handler turned her attention from Tara and saw him. That sadistic smile, the one that twisted her features into something monstrous, was turned on him and Tim felt the same way he had before. He brought up the gun, ready to shoot her right between the eyes, as he should have done before.

His gun suddenly jerked to the side firing harmlessly into a tree. It wasn't a problem on his part. Tim noticed the hand around his wrist. He looked up just in time to see Carew aim at the woman who had destroyed Tim's life and shoot her in the head. She fell to the ground, the smile fading slowly.

Carew was still holding Tim's wrist. His grip was so tight that, try as he would, Tim couldn't get free. He was screaming, swearing, angrier than he'd ever been. To be so close...and have it stolen from him.

"She was mine! She was mine!" he screamed.

Gunfire erupted once more and Carew looked down at Tim for a moment, smiled and then let him go. Tim, rather than follow him, or even shoot him, as he felt like doing, simply fell to the ground, lying in a useless heap. Carew had stopped him. Carew had killed her. Carew had done it. Carew. In control as always. Carew had done it.

Tim pulled himself upright and looked toward the body, the blood staining the trail and he pulled himself over to it. He sat beside the corpse of his handler and stared at her destroyed face. Carew had hit her in the forehead. Her eyes were still open, staring sightlessly up into the heavens. Tim stared at her, willing her to come alive again so that he could kill her again. His gun was clutched uselessly in his hand. He didn't know what to do now. The gunfire going on didn't seem to be even connected to his reality.

There was only him and this dead body.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs directed Tony and Ziva to split up. They heard when the amount of gunfire was diminished. Then, there was a scream. Female. They redoubled their pace and saw Carew creeping up on Laurence Anderson, who was still firing. Anderson hadn't yet seen them. Gibbs caught a glimpse of Ziva running through the trees and indicated for her to take him down. She nodded and ran. Tony closed in from the other side.

"NCIS! Drop your weapon!" The cry came nearly simultaneously from Tony, Ziva and Gibbs.

Laurence Anderson might have been evil, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that his hoped-for allies would have melted away, not willing to disgrace their country by being seen with traitors. He also knew that he stood a better chance with NCIS. He dropped his weapon and stood.

Carew stood upright and walked over to them, looking calm as a summer's day.

Right up until the moment when he pointed his gun at Laurence and pulled the trigger. He fell to the ground, a bullet in his head. Tara walked up in the shocked interim, her hand covering a bloody wound on her arm. She looked down at Laurence and said nothing. A look of satisfaction crossed her face.

Carew stared at the man he had just killed before looking at the shocked NCIS agents. "Thank you for distracting him. I knew I could count on NCIS to show up at the right moment. Anyone else would have merely been more fodder for him to take out."

"You just...killed him," Tony said.

"You don't think he deserved it?" Carew asked.

"I think _you_ deserve it. You don't see _me_ pulling out my gun and shooting _you_ down."

"That's because you know that I am not the bad guy, much as Agent McGee knows the same thing. Speaking of which..." He turned and walked away. It was only after a few seconds that the others kicked their minds back in gear and followed him.

Around a copse of trees, Tim was sitting on the ground, staring at the body of his handler. He didn't move until Carew approached him.

"You won't need to suffer through my presence any longer, Agent McGee. Your team has proved the trust you put in them."

Tim's back was to his friends, and for some reason, they couldn't move toward him. His voice was so soft that they had to strain to hear him.

"You took it from me."

"Yes, I did."

"Why? How could you do that to me?"

"I had a good reason."

"No. It couldn't have been good enough. You..."

Carew, still with his usual expression, no emotion lighting up his black eyes, bent over and whispered in Tim's ear. Tim stopped talking and looked up at him, horror etched in every line of his face.

"If you're interested, Agent McGee."

"Where are the police?" Tony asked. "I know that Central Park has its own division. Where are they?"

"Elsewhere," Carew answered. "I had a number of agents in place to keep them away. The CIA will deal with the cleanup. No one else will even know."

Tara walked over and joined them again, still saying nothing.

"Well, Tara, should we go?"

"Wait!" Gibbs said, approaching him quickly. "What do you mean, go?"

"The word is very short, Agent Gibbs. Two letters. Its meaning is simple. I...and my agent, are going to leave. In a few minutes, other agents will come and take over. You are all free to go as well. In fact, I suggest that it might behoove you to leave sooner rather than later." He looked at Tim once more. "My agent is in need of medical attention. Normally, she is in charge of such things, but as you can see, it would be difficult for her to treat herself with one arm." He held out a hand to Tara and the two of them started walking up the trail.

Tim stirred briefly and looked at them. "You ruined my life!" he shouted at their departing backs. "Don't you care?"

Carew stopped and looked back at him. "Believe what you will, Agent McGee. You are no longer my responsibility, nor am I yours." Tara never said a word, but she left with Carew, her back ramrod straight, the only evidence of her pain the tension in her arms.

"McGee?" Tony asked, walking over to him. He put his hand on Tim's shoulder only to have it roughly brushed aside.

"Don't touch me," he growled at him. "I'll bet you helped. I'll bet you all helped him. He uses people and throws them away."

"McGee!" Gibbs said and he knelt in front of him, blocking his view of his handler. Tim's face was twisted with anger.

"She was mine. They destroyed everything they touched. They killed...they hurt. They destroyed and deserved to _be_ destroyed. I was going to do it. _I_ was going to do it. No one else. Me."

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

Tim raised his eyes to meet Gibbs', surprised by the question. "Why? What kind of a stupid question is that?"

"You haven't answered it," Gibbs pointed out.

"Stop asking me questions. Stop it. Stop."

"I only asked you one."

Again, Tim seemed stymied, but he was clearly not all there...or he was just there too much.

Ziva joined them. "McGee, they are dead. It should not matter who killed them."

"I found them," Tim said, his eyes darting between his friends and the body.

"Good for you," Tony muttered.

"I was going to kill them."

"Why?"

"They killed people. Over and over. No trial. No chance to ask for mercy. That's the kind of death they deserved."

"Do you really believe that, Tim?" Gibbs asked.

The anger came back. "Stop asking me questions! I don't have to answer your stupid questions!"

"Are you ready to leave?"

Tim's mood shifted abruptly again. "It's so quiet here."

"...yeah..." Tony said, looking around.

"So quiet. You can't even hear the cars."

"Nope."

"Yes, I want to leave," Tim said, his voice now tinged with urgency. "I need to leave."

"What's the rush?" Tony asked.

"It's too quiet. I can..."

"What, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

"I made the choice. I can't take it back. Nothing can change it. Nothing."

"Where's your wheelchair?"

"Back there. I fell out. It hit a rock. I was going too fast."

For the first time, they notice how banged up Tim was. His shirt was torn. There were scrapes on his hands, his face. His pants had holes in them. He didn't seem to notice.

"Here you go, McGee."

Tim wouldn't let them touch him, but he started to get back into the wheelchair.

"Wait! The laptop! Where is it?"

"What laptop?" Ziva asked.

"Stop being stupid!" Tim shouted. "Where is it?"

Where that kind of comment would have resulted in Tim's slow and painful death at other times, this time, she merely looked concerned. Tim was out of control.

"Where did you have it last?"

"I threw it."

"It probably won't work, Probie," Tony said.

"You think I don't know that?" Tim snarled. "I need it!"

"Okay, okay." Tony held his hands up in submission. He started to search for it.

"Not there!" Tim shouted angrily. "The other side."

"Why did you throw it, McGee?" Ziva asked.

"I had to get my gun out," Tim said, his voice full of derision.

Gibbs was looking at Tim as if at a stranger. His voice was certainly different, and the anger had made new lines in his face. It was Tim's eyes, however, that Gibbs was most interested in. Right now, there was no mask. There was no control either. Tim really had lost it. He was angry, yes, but there was more to it than anger, more to it than hatred. Tim was feeling way too much at the moment and the only emotion he seemed to be able to express was his anger...but he couldn't vent it on the people who deserved it because they were either gone or dead.

"Found it!" Tony said, holding it up.

"Give it to me," Tim ordered. He grabbed it from Tony, still sitting on the ground and opened the lid. By some miracle, it booted up.

"Wow, you are the luckiest guy in the world," Tony said.

Tim ignored him. He began to type furiously on the laptop, opening windows full of code. It took only a couple of minutes. Then, he closed the lid and threw the laptop against a tree.

"It's gone! It's gone!" he screamed, looking above him. "You hear me? It's gone! You'll never get it!"

Gibbs grabbed Tim and turned him toward him. Tim struggled against his hands.

"Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

Gibbs wouldn't let him go. "You stopped them both, Tim. You did a good job."

Tim tried to pull away. When he failed, he cursed at Gibbs, at Tony, at Ziva. He screamed wordlessly, trying to get away from Gibbs.

"You stopped them, Tim. It's over. You're done," Gibbs said again.

"Let me go! Don't touch me! Not again!"

"Tim, it's Gibbs!"

The screaming stopped and Tim started sobbing. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. The words wouldn't come. He still struggled to get away, but he was crying so hard that he couldn't do anything.

"Stop fighting, Tim. We're here. We found you, just like I said we would." It might be too late as Ziva had said, but at least they were there.

With a final pull, Tim wrenched himself from Gibbs grasp, turned around, the gun in his hand and fired it into his handler's body. Over and over, until the clip was empty. "Die! Die! Die!"

"She's dead, Tim. She's dead."

Still sobbing, the gun dropped from Tim's hand. He turned back to the others. Tony was still holding onto the wheelchair. Ziva was staring at him with something akin to fear. Gibbs was just waiting.

"Don't leave me alone," he whimpered. "I can't be alone."

For a moment, no one moved. Then, Ziva took a step toward him, worried that he'd shift back to the anger again. Tim just sat on the ground, weeping, nearly hysterical. Another step. Still no reaction. One more step brought her right next to him. She crouched down.

"You are not alone, McGee." A hesitant hand on Tim's shoulder. He put his own hand to cover hers. "We are here. We will not leave you alone."

"I can't be alone. I can't be alone. Not alone. Never alone," Tim said. He repeated it over and over. Ziva brought her other hand onto his shoulder and pulled him to her. Tim threw his arms around her and held on for dear life. "Don't leave me alone. Don't leave me alone."

"You are not alone," she said, but looking over his shoulder at Gibbs and Tony, she was frightened. They looked frightened as well.

The problem was that they didn't know what Tim was frightened of.

He was scared of himself.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: Which Causeth Silence to Reign**

Tim clung so to Ziva that it was hard to get him back in the wheelchair. He kept begging not to be left alone. It took her back to when they had rescued him from the CIA in the grips of an atropine overdose, only this time, he wasn't screaming about shadows and blood and bugs. He just didn't want to be alone. The other difference was that he willingly clung to Tony and then to Gibbs as they got him back to the car. All that matter was being with someone.

Once they convinced him to get into the car, they looked at each other, silently asking who was going to sit in the back with him. No one wanted to...but everyone wanted to at the same time. Finally, Ziva simply opened the door and got in the backseat. Tim didn't fall on her as she had expected. He was still weeping hysterically, and the only thing she could get out of him was his continued pleading not to leave him alone, but he didn't move. He was huddled against the car door.

"McGee?" Ziva asked hesitantly.

Tim ignored her, rubbing his head and then his legs...as if both were causing him pain. He wasn't looking at anyone and the tears continued to course down his cheeks.

"McGee?" she asked again and then reached out and touched his hand. The reaction was so immediate and shocking that Ziva didn't have any time to react.

Tim hit her. In the face. Then, he started screaming again, telling her not to touch him.

Gibbs, who was driving, looked back in concern as Ziva held her cheek. Tony was ready to climb over the seat to help, but Ziva shook her head.

"McGee! It is Ziva. I am not trying to hurt you. I want to help!" she said, earnestly.

Tim again dissolved into tears and started begging not to be left alone again.

"McGee, what has happened to you?"

Tim's eyes were terrified as he stared at her. "I can't be alone."

"Why not?"

Tim shook his head and just cried, "I can't be alone. Don't leave me alone."

"Why not...Tim?"

Tim grabbed Ziva by the arms. "I do bad things when I'm alone. Bad things happen when I'm alone." He was completely terrified.

Ziva pulled him to her again. He wrapped his arms around her waist and sobbed uncontrollably. She began to rock him back and forth.

"Oh, Tim. We were too late, weren't we? I am sorry."

Tim didn't respond, but he didn't let go of her until they got to the hospital...even then, it was only because he was forced to. Gibbs went in to talk to a doctor while Tony and Ziva tried to get Tim out of the car. The hospital staff had a gurney waiting for him, but when Tim realized that he was going to be left alone, he completely freaked out.

"No! No! Don't leave me here! No! Please!" Tim screamed and fought the restraining hands.

"Tim, you won't be alone," Gibbs said. "You need let them help you."

"No! Not with them! No! Not alone! Not alone!"

Gibbs sighed and walked over to the gurney. Tim grabbed onto him, holding his arm so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Don't leave me alone," he whispered. "Please."

Gibbs leaned over so that Tim had to look into his eyes. "McGee, listen to me."

"No, no, no. Please."

"McGee. Listen."

Tim subsided.

"We have to leave you here right now."

Tim started to panic again.

"You won't be alone and we'll get you moved as soon as we can, but for now, can I _trust_ you to stay and do what the doctors need you to do?"

Slowly, ever so slowly, Tim nodded and leaned back...but the fear didn't lessen and he looked back at the team until the doors closed behind him.

"What happened to him?" the doctor asked.

This was the hard part. While they had little respect for the various classified requests that would undoubtably come down from on high, there was the problem that if they started talking about what had happened, what Tim had done, the people he had helped kill. Where did they stop once they started? For probably about the first time, they understood the problems with classified operations. While some things weren't classified, they would lead to other things that were.

"That's classified," they said together.

The doctor looked frustrated, an expression they could very well understand.

"How am I supposed to help this man if you don't tell me what happened?"

"He was hit by a car a few weeks ago and broke both his legs. Since then, there has been some..." Tony looked at Gibbs.

"...some...additional stress on them. We just want to make sure that he hasn't done any more damage."

"What about his mental status?"

"Obviously, he's not in his right mind right now," Gibbs said. "I can't tell you why not because I don't know...but the operation he was involved in is classified and I can't tell you about it. We're going to arrange to have him transferred down to DC as soon as we can, but I wanted to be sure that his legs were...well, as good as can be expected."

The doctor rolled his eyes but nodded and walked away.

"Man," Tony said, "I am suddenly full of sympathy for people in classified jobs."

"How long will that last, Tony?" Ziva asked.

"Not long."

Gibbs didn't say anything. Instead, he went to the waiting area and sat down...to wait again.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"He did it."

"How?" Tara sat up quickly. "That's impossible. I saw him throw the laptop. There's no way..."

"No way?" Carew sighed. "Brie, once again you have underestimated Agent McGee. Even out of his mind, he's more than intelligent enough to destroy this amazing program. It's definitely a pity, but we've done well without it before. We can again." He stood up from the dual-head display and began to head toward his bedroom. "You really should be resting, you know. The doctor said as much."

Tara ignored that. "Don't you care?"

Carew stopped. "That's exactly what Agent McGee said. I will answer you the same way: you can believe what you want. I've done what I set out to do. Now, it's over."

"Over? It's not over. You know it's not. You act like a machine, but you must have cared at least a little bit."

Carew turned around. "Brie, I have devoted my life to one thing and one thing only. That requires a very different outlook from most people."

"This didn't seem all that different."

"I was serving two masters, it's true, but I still was serving my first responsibility. Now that the job is done, it's over. You still have not accepted the way things must be. They can't change, not even for you. That decision has been in place since before you were born." He walked to the bedroom and called from its interior. "Tell your mother I said hello, why don't you?"

"She hates you, you know."

"I know. As well she should." He emerged once more, carrying his bag. "Would you like a ride, Tara? Or will you make your own way?"

"I'll make my own way."

The smile he gave her as he turned to leave was, for a wonder, slightly sad. "I'll expect your report by next week. You can take a day or two."

"Good-bye..." The door closed. "...Dad." Tara stared after him and then shook her head and went to her bedroom to gather her things. By the next day, there would be nothing left of any of them in this place. The computers would stay, but the program, since Tim had already ruined it...again, would be gone. Tara paused and looked at the computers once more. Why not. They were there. She sat down and checked her email. She was surprised to see that she'd been given a week's medical leave. Well, at least she could have a good visit. "Thank you, Director."

Another minute and the condo was empty.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim didn't fight the doctors. He didn't do anything at all...most of the time. His eyes would follow every person who came into his room, but he wouldn't speak...most of the time. The doctors had determined that while there had definitely been more pressure on the broken bones than was wise, Tim's legs would still heal, provided he allowed them to. He was then admitted to the psych ward until NCIS transferred him to Bethesda.

His mind, however, was a different matter altogether. Although silence reigned in his room most of the time, occasionally, he would freak out for no apparent reason and begin screaming. He managed to hit a few of the nurses before they strapped him down...which caused his panic to increase about thirty fold. That was how Tony, Gibbs and Ziva found him when they came back the next morning to arrange his transfer.

"McGee!" Tony said, after he saw Tim's frantic struggles. "Why is he tied down? He's not an animal!"

The nurse, who had a black eye blossoming on her face, was less than sympathetic. "He has attacked four nurses and one of the doctors. He may not be an animal, but right now, he's a danger...to himself and others."

"I'll calm him down," Tony said, staring daggers at her.

"Go ahead and try."

Tony strode into the room and sat down by Tim's bed. Tim saw him instantly and stopped moving, stopped screaming.

"Let me out," he whispered. "Let me go."

"I wish I could, Probie."

"Please," Tim said, his eyes still filled with fear.

"Soon. Not yet."

"No...now!" The second word was screamed and instead of fear, anger was in Tim's eyes. He began to pull against the restraints again. "You can't leave me here!"

"I'm not, Tim. I promise."

"Then, let me out!"

"Not yet. You hit people, McGee. They can't let you just go around beating the hospital staff."

To Tony's surprise, that completely deflated Tim and he seemed to shrink in on himself. "I can't."

"Can't what?"

"I can't stop. I can't be alone." Tim closed his eyes and more tears leaked out beneath his lids...but the silence returned, and Tony was loath to break it...but it was so oppressive.

"I'm here, Tim," he said softly. "You're not alone."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim's transfer to Bethesda went much more smoothly. They permitted the team to accompany him on the trip. Tim remained outwardly calm, but the fear never left his eyes. He still had not articulated what frightened him so much, and they still had no idea what was wrong with him.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Four days later..._

"What does that mean?" Ziva asked Tim's psychiatrist.

"Agent McGee is suffering from a temporary psychosis..."

"Whoa! He's psycho?" Tony asked in shock.

"If I could finish, please, Agent DiNozzo."

"Sorry."

"As I was saying, brief reactive psychosis is a temporary psychosis that is a response to a major stressor. He won't tell us what he was doing, and the CIA has stonewalled us, but based on your descriptions of his actions in New York and his medical history, I would say that this is something that will resolve itself within a month. His mind couldn't take the stress and so it fractured briefly. This time will have to be a healing time for him. We'll keep him here for a few more days and then, he should be released into someone's care."

"Someone? What about his family?"

"He has been adamant that they not be informed. We could not get a reason from him because that demand resulted in another violent episode."

"Violent?"

The doctor smiled. "Mostly shouting at this point. He becomes aggressive without obvious cause. We simply ride it out and help him see that his reaction is one that is understandable, but not helpful. There is one problem, however."

"Only one?"

"One major problem: he will not speak to us. He will not tell us his feelings, his fears...and he is most definitely afraid of something. His anger is only a compensation for his fear. What he needs most is someone to talk to, someone who he will trust enough to confide in. We are just not those people. We can use medication to control his symptoms, but since they should resolve themselves within a few weeks..."

"Weeks?"

"BRP is a psychosis that should not last more than a month. If it does, then we have misdiagnosed him. I don't think that's the case, obviously. You'll notice an improvement even now. He recognizes us when we come. He hasn't tried to hit anyone for two days."

"Tim never hit anyone before," Ziva said, feeling her own cheek where Tim had hit her.

"Let me emphasize what this is. This is not your friend exactly. Psychosis is a severe departure from reality. Agent McGee does not understand that what he is doing is a strange reaction. For him, it feels completely appropriate. He is afraid and so reacts to that fear. He is angry and reacts to that. Some people who suffer from brief psychotic disorders commit acts of violence against others or against themselves _because it seems right_. Thankfully, Agent McGee's psychosis has not run toward suicide. However, without therapy and recognition of the triggers, this type of thing could happen again. There is the added fillip of his broken legs. That confines him, and it is frustrating. In his current state, he cannot deal with frustration easily. He will need someone who will be both understanding _and_ remind him of what is inappropriate."

"Does he have to...relearn this stuff?" Tony asked.

"No. He knows it. He just has to be reminded as his mind heals. That takes time and requires a place where he feels safe...safe to let himself out of the walls he's built. You'll see glimmers of his usual self already." There was a pause. "I saw in his file that he has been tortured recently."

"Yes."

"That is probably an added difficulty for him. Torture takes a long time to overcome, even if the patient receives immediate treatment."

"Okay. Can we see him?"

"Absolutely. The presence of people he knows will help immeasurably. Agent Gibbs came early this morning, but since Agent McGee was actually sleeping, we had to turn him away. Please, let him know that he is welcome as well."

"We will."

Together, Tony and Ziva walked down the hallway to Tim's room. They knocked, but there was no response. Tentatively, they opened the door. Tim was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, staring. It was so quiet in the room that they felt as though they should be tiptoeing around. Tim didn't really acknowledge their presence, but they came in anyway.

"Hey, Tim. How are you feeling?" Tony asked and then kicked himself for acting like he was addressing a child. He needn't have bothered. Tim didn't say anything...and he didn't speak or acknowledge them for nearly five minutes. They both felt extremely awkward and were about to say good-bye when Tim sighed. He looked at them.

"Am I me?"

"What?"

"Am I me?" Tim looked away from the window, his eyes still showing his terror. "I don't feel like me."

"What do you feel like, then?" Ziva asked.

Tim's head dropped and he whispered inaudibly.

"What did you say?"

"A monster."

"No!" Ziva said loudly. Tim's head jerked up and she backpedaled immediately. "I am sorry. You are not a monster. You are Tim McGee. You are our friend."

"You're scared of me," Tim pointed out. "That's okay."

"I am not afraid of you, McGee."

"We're just worried...for you," Tony added, leaning toward him. Tim pulled back. "McGee, we just want to help you."

"No. No one helps," Tim said, his voice becoming laced with anger. "All they care about is what they can get. All they want is...is to..." Tim's voice petered out.

"Some people are like that, McGee...but not many."

Tim slumped down again. "I know...but why do they have to..."

"I don't know why they hurt you, Tim," Tony said. "I wish I did, but I don't."

"Why..."

"Why don't you want your family here?" Ziva asked suddenly.

"Shut up," Tim said.

"No, McGee. I will not do that. You love your family, do you not?"

"Stop asking me questions. I don't have to answer you."

"No, you do not, but do you not love your family?"

"Yes."

"They love you?"

Tim looked at her accusingly. "Yes."

"Then why don't you want them here, McGee?" Tony asked.

Tim stared at them, anger blazing from his eyes. Ziva didn't back down...Tim did. "I don't want to lie."

"Why would you lie?"

"They would ask what happened." Tim lifted his head. "I can't tell them I'm a monster! I can't tell them I'm a killer! I can't tell them that I...that..." His eyes changed again and he was screaming at them. "Go away! Leave me alone! Stop it!"

Tony stood up, but instead of leaving, he grabbed Tim, much in the style that Gibbs had and stared at him.

"We won't leave you alone, Tim. You asked us not to and we won't."

"I can't be alone," Tim said, in another abrupt shift.

"You said. You won't be alone if you don't want to be."

"Tony..." Tim said. It was the first time he'd said any of their names since the confrontation in Central Park.

"What, McGee?"

"Am I me?"

"Yes."

"But..."

"You are...just...just a little off, right now."

Tim flung Tony away, but he didn't try to hit him. "Off! That's what he says! Off! I'm not off! I'm crazy!"

"No, you're not," Tony said, urgently. "You're not crazy, McGee."

"I am! I'm crazy! I'm not off! I'm not okay! I'm crazy! Leave me alone!" Tim turned away from them, rammed his hands against his head and began to cry again. "I'm not okay. I'm not okay."

"Fine. You're not, McGee," Tony said. "You're not okay, but you _will_ be."

"No, I don't think I will," Tim said. "I can't be. I can't...never."

"You can," Ziva said. "Just like before. It will take time, but you can be...if you want to be."

"No." Tim began to scream again. "No!" This time, the door opened and a nurse came in. She smiled at Tony and Ziva before bustling them out into the hallway.

"It's best to leave him for a bit. You did quite a bit. That's about the most reasonable he's been since he's been here."

"Reasonable? He's not," Tony protested.

The nurse put her hand on Tony's arm in pity. "You see insanity. I see improvement. Soon you will, too. It will just take time...like _you_ said."

"I'm not sure that..." Tony began and stopped, embarrassed.

"You don't have to go back in today. Tim won't mind."

"How do you know?"

"Because, he'll be relieved for the respite. Just keep coming."

"We will."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"How is he?" Abby asked eagerly when Tony and Ziva got back to NCIS. "Is he better?"

"They say he is, but I don't see it," Tony admitted.

"He is still...hurt...in his head."

Abby seemed to deflate like a punctured balloon. "Then...is he going to stay that way?"

"They say not. They say it's some sort of temporary psychotic disorder that will go away."

"Are they right?"

"You're asking me?" Tony said incredulously. "I have no idea. As far as I can tell, McGee is missing more than one screw."

"He'll be okay, though, right?"

Ziva nodded firmly. "Yes, he will...if I have to _make_ him."

Abby grinned and nodded in agreement.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim finally stopped screaming, but he wouldn't talk to them either. He stayed silent...mostly. Every once in a while he would repeat three words.

"I'm not okay."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Let Them Be Silent in the Grave**

A few more days saw the marked change that everyone had been hoping for. It wasn't complete and total return. Tim still had moments of uncontrollable anger...and he still wasn't telling anyone what had happened, what was going on, but the moments were getting fewer and farther between. Tim was released, and although he had talked about going to a hotel...or at least someplace with an elevator (he had shuddered at the word, but nothing more), he ended up at Jenny's for the first week with plans for him to stay with Gibbs for the second week. He had to have someone around to help him, and his apartment didn't have an elevator. Tim felt highly embarrassed about being in his ultimate boss' home, but he had to admit that he needed help, and Jenny at least had a housekeeper.

Most of the week passed without problems. Jenny was content to let him keep to himself as needed, and she took him to his therapy appointments. Then, on Saturday...

The glass shattered as it hit the wall. A decanter followed it, smashing into more pieces. Tim was on the floor, curled in a ball when Jenny ran into the room.

"Tim, what's wrong?" she asked, trying not to feel at least some anger at what he had done.

Tim brought his hands over his head, reminding Jenny of her days of babysitting years ago. With that in mind, she sat down beside him and put her hand on his back. He flinched away, but nothing more.

"What happened? Why did you break my decanter?"

"They broke my legs," Tim said, his voice muffled.

"What?"

"They broke my legs!" he screamed. "They broke my legs! They shoved a needle into my head! They stole my words! Why is it wrong?"

"What, Tim?" Jenny asked, trying to be patient.

"No...no questions," Tim said, a sure sign that they were getting close to the real problem. He had retreated every time.

"Tim, you told me what you did the last time. What happened this time?"

"No!"

"Yes." She rolled him over onto his back. He stared up at her, tears in his eyes. "Tell me. I have never broken your trust. Trust me now."

The sound of running feet, signaled the arrival of Noemi. "Is something wrong, _senora_?"

"No, Noemi. Nothing. Go on. We're fine."

"You are sure?"

"Yes. I am sure. Go."

Reluctant footsteps faded away.

"Trust me, Tim. I won't break your trust. Do you trust me?"

Tim blinked a few times. "I broke your glass, your vase."

"It was a decanter, and that's not what I was asking you."

"I wanted..."

"What?"

Tim closed his eyes tight. "I wanted them dead. I wanted to kill them. I wanted..." His voice rose. "I wanted to tear them apart! I wanted them to...to feel the same things they had done to me! I wanted them to be _afraid_!"

"You wanted revenge?"

"Yes!"

"That is not surprising, Tim."

"It's wrong!"

Jenny smiled. "You think I don't know that? Tim, I have spent the last two years of my life living on the need for revenge."

"I wanted...I wished...and I tried!"

"Tim, you've never told Gibbs and the others what you did before, did you."

Tim's eyes flew open again. "No! No! I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"No more questions," he said and sat up on the floor. His chair was on its side a short distance away.

"Why not?"

"I said, no more questions!" he shouted and then shoved her away. Jenny fell back onto her arms and she saw Tim's face shift from anger to immediate horror. "See what I do? I hurt people! That's what I do!"

Jenny pushed herself back up. "No, Tim. That wasn't you. You're still getting better. Remember? The doctor explained it to you, you _are_ getting better. That's the first time you've screamed at me all week."

Tim's face crumpled and he dropped his head. "I hurt people."

Jenny reached out and lifted his head. "You have, Tim. It's true...but that's not what you do...and you won't be hurting Gibbs and Tony and Ziva and Abby...and anyone else by telling them what you did. They won't abandon you. They won't leave you. You don't have to be afraid of that."

"I'm not," Tim sobbed.

"Then, what is it, Tim?" Jenny asked sternly. "Because I can't afford to lose anymore decanters when you lose control."

Tim hunched his shoulders and dropped his head again.

"What is it that scares you? We've all seen it in your eyes. You are scared. Is it them?"

"No!"

"Then, what?" she asked, her voice soft. It contrasted sharply with Tim's continued shouting.

"It's me!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Me! I'm scared of myself! Look what I've done! I killed people! I helped kill people! I helped again! I hurt...I hurt people and...I hurt you tonight! I never used to hurt people! I never used to break the law! I never used to be so...so mad!"

"Tim, I won't pretend that you didn't do those things, but it was under duress."

Tim fell back to the floor and covered his head. "Not the last time."

Jenny sighed with understanding. It wasn't enough that they had manipulated him. They had broken him as well by playing on his buried desire for revenge. She wished anew that killing federal directors wasn't frowned upon. She honestly couldn't decide which pair she hated more: Carew and Tara or Laurence and Tim's handler (who never had possessed a name).

"Tim, you made a mistake, but it wasn't all your doing. How much choice did you have?"

Tim didn't answer. He curled into a tighter ball. She could see his body shaking. For not the first time, she half-regretted opening her home to Tim. It wasn't his fault. He was still trying to get back to his normal level of functioning, but it was hard dealing with him on her own. Eventually, she had to call for help in getting Tim into bed. He had become slack, docile and there was nothing else to be done.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

There were no more confidences during the last two days of Tim's stay with Jenny. At times, the old Tim surfaced and he was mortified at his behavior. At other times, he was so withdrawn that he seemed catatonic. When the week was finally over and Gibbs was going to take his shift, Jenny was relieved. This wasn't even the tortured agent who had stood in her office and calmly told her that he had killed a number of people. This was a complete stranger, most of the time.

Gibbs could see it in her face that she was glad Tim was leaving. Tim, for his part, didn't react. She had told him that Tim was scared of himself, but that he wouldn't elaborate yet. Gibbs nodded to her. It was, in a crazy way, like sharing custody. The thought was so odd when it struck him that he had to smile and chuckle. Tim looked up.

"What's so funny?"

"Don't know yet. I'll let you know when I figure it out."

Tim got himself into the car. It had been over a month since his legs had been broken. Soon he could start trying to walk on them, but for now, the wheelchair was still a necessity.

The ride to Gibbs' place was silent. Most of that first night was silent. Tim didn't speak and Gibbs didn't press. Pressing could come later.

Two days later, the pressure came, but it started with a question.

"Boss?"

"What, McGee?" Gibbs looked up. He'd been reading about a new shaping technique for his boat.

"What's wrong with me?"

"What do you think?"

"I...I don't know."

"You're lying, McGee."

That was enough to drive Tim away...but Gibbs wouldn't let him go. "What do you think is wrong with you, McGee?"

"I don't know!" he insisted, shouting as if he could be right just because of his volume.

"Shouting won't change the fact that you _do_ know."

"I think I..."

"What?"

"I...went too far."

"Why?"

"I hated them."

"Of course you did."

"No, Boss. I hated them all. I wanted them all to be dead. I wanted...and I... I let that..." Tim stopped and tried to leave again. "No more questions," he gasped out.

"Tim, this is the best time for questions."

"No...too many questions. I can't answer them."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't!" Tim shouted. "I couldn't answer them before...so I hid them...and I...I was ready to kill them. I wanted to kill _her_."

"But you didn't."

"Only because he stopped me!" Tim shouted, his voice now full of remorse. "I'm supposed to be better than that! I let...I hate him, but...he stopped me. He kept me from...and..."

"Who?"

"Carew," he said the name like it was an expletive.

"He wouldn't let you kill her?"

"No...and I wanted to. I was going to. I was ready to. I had _planned_, and he stopped me...how can I?"

"What? Pretend that you don't make mistakes?"

"Murder isn't a mistake! Murder is..."

"A crime, yes, I know, Tim. I have some experience with it."

"I've killed more people than..."

"You didn't kill them."

"I might as well have. Carew killed people, but at least they were guilty."

Gibbs waited.

"Gray," Tim whispered through his tears.

"What?"

"He said that there's no good and bad. There's only gray...but where am I?"

"Not where...who."

"Boss, I'm afraid of...of...of becoming what I was. I let...I used my anger. I used it. I didn't have to. I could have told him to...shove it."

"You could have, but you didn't."

"No, I didn't. Carew's the better man."

"No. No, Tim. He's not. He's not evil, although I wish he was, but you are governed by principles that he doesn't have...not anymore at least."

"But I ignored them."

"Are you ignoring them now?"

"No."

"Were you when you were making that program for Carew? How did you feel then?"

"I hated myself."

"Of course you did, because you didn't want to do what you knew was wrong."

"But I did it anyway! That makes it worse."

"No."

"No more questions," Tim whispered.

"Okay. For now..."

Tim nodded and left. Gibbs went to bed, but kept an ear open for Tim in case something happened.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim was gone in the morning. Gibbs woke up and knew that there was something wrong...more wrong, that is. He got up and nearly ran around the house. No wheelchair. No Tim.

_Not again._


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: Be Not Silent to Me**

Before he let himself panic, Gibbs pulled out his cell phone and dialed Tim's number. They'd given him back his cell phone, just in case he needed something while they were gone. He didn't expect to get an answer. He expected to hear the phone ringing in the next room. He didn't think Tim would pick up.

He did.

"_Hello?" _The voice was soft, melancholy...and strangely sane.

"McGee?"

"_Hi, Boss."_

"McGee!" Gibbs said, letting himself be angry. "What do you think you're doing?"

"_Sitting."_

"Where?"

"_New York."_

"What?"

"_I'm in New York City, Boss."_

"Why?"

"_I couldn't sleep."_

"You couldn't sleep." That was a strange statement. Maybe Tim wasn't as sane as he had first seemed.

"_I couldn't sleep. I haven't been sleeping well lately and last night I just figured that there was no point in trying."_

"Okay, I'm waiting for the part where that leads you to New York City."

"_I just couldn't sleep."_

"How did you get there?"

There was a low laugh, reminiscent of the Tim he had known. _"For all that I hate being stuck in this stupid chair, there's something to be said for it. I went outside and called a cab from the sidewalk at around one a.m. I told them I needed a cab, but that I was in a wheelchair. 'No problem,' they said. They're so afraid of being offensive that they bent over backward for me. I went to the Amtrak station. Again, they were so very helpful. I bought a ticket, rode the train to Penn Station, didn't even have to hail a taxi. They did it for me. It was easy."_

"Where are you...in New York City?"

"_Central Park."_

There was no need to ask why that location. "McGee..."

"_I've been guilty of fuzzy thinking lately, Boss."_

"It's..."

"_It's not okay,"_ Tim said, interrupting Gibbs with a fierce tone. _"I know it's not, and you don't have to pretend."_ Gibbs heard a deep breath, slowly exhaled. _"Well, I slept on the train and...I woke up, really thinking...thinking for the first time in I don't know how long."_

"About what?"

"_Me. My life...or what remains of it."_

That sounded ominous. "Tim..."

"_I've really screwed some things up, Boss."_

"What are you going to do?"

"_Don't know yet. It's really quiet here. You can't hear the city. You could almost pretend you were somewhere else."_ Tim's voice took on a faraway quality.

"McGee, why did you go to New York?"

"_To think. You know, Carew talked to me before he left...that day. I was so...so angry right then. I could barely hear anything beyond my own mental screaming. But he told me some things...and I...I need to think about them."_

"What things?"

"_Why he wouldn't let me kill her. Why he did the job. Who he is."_ There were tears in Tim's voice. _"What could have happened to me...if he had let me pull the trigger."_

"All that?"

A small chuckle. _"Not in so many words. I'm going to be thinking for a while, Boss."_

"How long?"

"_As long as it takes to think it through."_

"Will you stay there until I get there?"

"_Don't you have work to do?"_

"They can survive without us for a day."

"_Us?"_

"If you think that Tony and Ziva...and Abby, probably, will be willing to stick around here while I go off to get you, you really _are_ crazy."

"_Jury's still out on that one, Boss."_

"I see."

"_No,"_ Tim's voice was adamant. _"No, you really don't. You can't because I haven't told you everything, and I know that Director Shephard hasn't either. Twenty-four."_

"What?"

"_Twenty-four. That's how many people I helped kill. Twenty-six if you count Laurence Anderson and my handler. It was almost more than that...except that I warned Tara and...Quinn and Griffen. Part of the reason it's so many is because two people were with their families. One was an unwed mother. She had a daughter. She was beautiful...both of them were."_

"McGee, you don't have to..."

"_Yes, I do. The mother begged for them not to kill her daughter. It didn't work. The other family was large. They were in...Iraq. I still remember the mother pleading for God to save her. There were six kids, the parents...and a set of grandparents. All of them died. It took less than a minute. Sometimes, when I sleep, I can still hear them. I tried not to see what I was doing, but in a way, it was worse...because I couldn't tune out the voices."_

"Do you mind if we come and join you?"

"_No, Boss. I don't mind...but I was just going to catch the evening train back. You don't have to drive all this way."_

"Yeah, I do, McGee...as long as you'll still be there."

"_Unless I get mugged."_

Gibbs chuckled a little bit. "Just stay where you are, McGee."

"_I'm not a toddler, Gibbs,"_ Tim said, sounding annoyed. _"I can take care of myself."_

"McGee, you–" Gibbs was cut off by another voice on the other end of the line.

"_Hey, you! In the wheelchair! Move it! You're blocking my path."_

Tim's voice faded a bit as he must have turned to answer. _"I'm only blocking half the path. There is plenty of room for you."_

"_I said move it!"_

Then, Tim's voice was back. It was a strange combination of frustration, annoyance and eager anticipation. _"Boss, looks like I'm going to have to take care of myself for awhile. Enjoy the drive."_

"McGee, you don't have to do this."

"_Do what? Stand up for myself? I can't always let people walk all over me."_ Tim stopped and was silent for a moment._ "Carew and I are the same, Boss."_

"No, you're not."

"_Quinn was his son. They killed his son. That's why he was after them. He wanted revenge...just like I did. We're the same."_ Then, Tim hung up.

Gibbs tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. Central Park was hardly ever empty, but that didn't mean that anyone would get involved if that guy on the other end of the line was as much of an idiot as he sounded. He dialed another number.

"DiNozzo, I'm going to New York. You coming?"

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim turned himself around. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice hard.

"I'm getting you out of my way."

Tim stared at the man. He was barely an adult, tall and skinny, wearing torn clothes to try and look cool. He was full of bravado...and he was a bully. Tim was sick of bullies. He was sick of being pushed around.

"Does it make you feel tough? More like a man? You think that because you can try to order a guy in a wheelchair around it makes you cool? What are you going to do if I refuse to move? Huh?"

The man took a threatening step forward, but his progress was hindered by the woman with him.

"Jake, you can't hit him!"

"Why not?"

"He's in a wheelchair!"

Tim rolled his eyes at her. "What, if I were standing it would make it okay to push me around? If I weren't so obviously injured? Should I stand up, Jake, and let you hit me? Would that be better? You people are all the same."

"What people?"

"You...the bullies. People who think that because they're stronger, they can get away with doing whatever they want...because no one dares stand up to them." Tim put on the brakes and pushed himself up to a standing position. It hurt a little and he knew he'd regret another time, but right now, that didn't matter at all. "Okay, Jake. I'm standing now. Hit me. Punish me for my incredible audacity for daring to sit in my wheelchair on a public path in a public park. Knock me down for not caving in to your juvenile demand that I risk injuring myself so that you don't have to take two steps to the side to get around me."

Jake..._and_ his girlfriend both stood in shock. Neither one moved.

"Come on, Jake! What? Are you scared of me? Huh? You think that maybe I can pull out some sort of karate or something when you're not ready? Let me tell you: I can't. I won't. I can't do anything much right now because of my legs. So, hit me! You wouldn't be the first, and you probably won't be the last!" Tim's voice was rising in volume. "You know why you won't hit me, Jake? You want to know?"

"Hey, man, it was just a–"

Tim cut him off. "No, I will not allow you to back off by pretending it was a joke. _You_ are a joke, but what you said is indicative of how you live your life. You think that you can walk all over people...well, you might be able to walk all over _me_, but only physically. I have gone through more than you ever have and I am stronger than you."

"Yeah? What have you done?" There was an infinitesimal attempt to regain the upper hand. It was obvious that Jake couldn't even figure out how he'd lost it in the first place.

"You want to know? Do you really want to know?" Tim challenged.

"Go ahead. Tell me," Jake said, gaining back some of his previous swagger. "You look like an older version of the geeks I control."

"Guess what...I am." Tim's voice dropped to a whisper. "You know what else? Both my legs are broken right now. That happened because I was hit by a car and then kidnaped. After that, I was sent, in a _bodybag,_ back to Washington D.C. where I work. I felt every single jolt of the truck. I couldn't see. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I just had to lay there and take it, feeling the pain of my broken and bleeding legs...and I did. I'm still alive. Before that, six months ago, I was kidnaped again. They took me and they tortured me. You want to see what I carry around with me every day?"

"Uh..."

Tim didn't give him a chance to answer. He pulled off his shirt. The first thing Jake and his girlfriend saw was the permanent marker on his chest, faded but still there: _A gift from me to you. _Then, his legs aching, he turned around so they could see his back, the marker on his back also faded but still spelling out: _Connect the dots yet?_ The dotted lines around each of the scars, the melted skin from the contacts.

"You see?" Tim turned back around. "Has that happened to you? Have you _ever_ in your sad little life ever had to experience the kind of pain that comes from being controlled by other people? Have you?" Tim's voice surged back to a shout. His phone rang again, but he ignored it. "You haven't. I can tell because, if you had, you would _not_ try to push people around...because you would know how it feels to a slave. To be forced to do the things you know are wrong because otherwise everyone you know and love will be killed. You'd understand that there are worse things than dying, and you wouldn't be so stupid and petty as to try and push someone else around...just because you think you can." Tim was trembling now because of the pain from standing up and confronting Jake. "So, Jake...are you going to hit me? Are you going to try and reclaim some vestige of the 'coolness' that you wrap around yourself to keep from thinking about the real world? Are you?"

There was a moment of complete silence. Tim didn't speak. He didn't move. His eyes were alive with anger and torment. Jake was visibly cowed.

"No," he said finally.

"That's right. You're not. So go on your way and leave me alone. Maybe you can remember this and learn something."

The couple edged around Tim and walked down the trail. Tim heard them start running and smiled to himself. He remained standing for a few more seconds and then collapsed back into the chair, breathing heavily. That had felt so good...to be able to rant to someone who really deserved it. No guilt. That was rare. Still, he had been on the verge of losing it. That was something he needed to work on.

With the silence descending once again, only the waterfalls making noise, Tim turned his thoughts once more to what Carew had said to him, and what Tim had done with that information. He felt his heart rate start to increase as he thought about all the things he'd done.

_Stop. You can't heal if you don't get control._ A deep breath. Another deep breath. Good. The heart rate slowed, gradually, but it slowed.

Carew had walked into this open-eyed. He'd had no illusions about what he was doing and what he was asking, no, _demanding_ of Tim...and yet, Tim couldn't help wondering...would he have done it if Carew had simply offered him the chance to get revenge? He had thought before that he was over it, that he didn't harbor any emotion except regret...but he'd been wrong. Very wrong. He'd been terrified, afraid of having it all happen again, of being forced to confront his demons. And that had happened, only this time, he'd let his demons take over.

_What happened to me in there?_ he asked himself as he had too many times. Before, he'd always retreated...mentally. It was as though his mind...had a mind of its own and would not accept what Tim had chosen to do. _Yes...my choice. I chose it. I hate that I did, but I can't change that._ Tim rolled himself down the path to...where it had happened. He could hear the echoes of his own screams, the bullets flying through the air, the smell...He reached the spot where his handler had died. He felt again that incontrollable anger and managed, with great effort, to push it away.

_Why did he stop me?_ Tim asked himself...and then he qualified that to, _Why did he care enough to stop me?_ Tim knew that he'd be feeling ten times worse right now if he had done what he had let himself want to do...what he didn't know was why Carew had bothered to stop him, not once, but twice. First, he had thrown Tim out of his wheelchair and second, he had actually kept him from shooting her. Why?

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Director Carew, how nice of you to show your face on my screen again. Someone else escape from CIA custody?" Jenny asked sourly.

Black eyes twinkling with supposed amusement, Carew shook his head. "I do so enjoy these little moments, Director Shephard. No, no one else has escaped from CIA custody. I was just wondering if your agent had recovered."

Jenny's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Can't a person show a bit of concern?"

"A person can."

His grin widened. "Director Shephard, I will never understand why people have such low opinions of NCIS. I have always been most impressed."

It was like staring at a wall, and Jenny was more impressed with Carew's demeanor than she'd ever admit.

"Agent McGee is healing," she said, reluctantly.

"I am happy to hear that. Well, I won't keep you from your busy day. Thank you for your time." The image of Carew disappeared.

"What was that?" the tech asked.

"I'm not sure. In anyone else, I would have said it was concern."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was probably the fastest anyone had ever traversed the distance between DC and New York. It should have taken four hours. It took considerably less than that. While they had wanted to go, Tony, Ziva and Abby wondered if Gibbs would finally kill them all. He said nothing. He just drove.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_Quinn was my son. His real name was Logan. My daughter's name is Brie. You don't have to become me."_

Tim was still thinking of that when the team reached him. He was staring thoughtfully at the place where there should have been a blood stain. There was nothing. The CIA had cleaned up very well.

"McGee...what is going on with you?" Tony gasped out.

Tim looked up at them and laughed softly. It wasn't that he found it particularly amusing, but it was an acceptable reaction.

"Did you think I'd be dead if you didn't run? It took you some time to get here. If I had planned on doing anything stupid...I would have had ample opportunity."

There was frustration...and worry on their faces. Tim knew why. He understood that, but he didn't think they'd ever really understand him. How could they? He'd never tried to tell them...and they had not asked.

Was it too late to start? Could he handle doing it?


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: I Speak unto You with My Voice**

Gibbs was ready to wallop Tim upside the head for how calm he seemed. Abby couldn't decide whether to hug him or punch him and Tony and Ziva were just waiting for Tim to go beserk again. So, while they all dithered, Tim had time to think...and suddenly, he just started talking. There was nothing planned, nothing expected. He remained perfectly still as he spoke, and it was almost like the mask was taking over again...but not quite. There was something different about this stillness.

"I'm responsible for the deaths of twenty-six people," Tim began, not looking at them. Instead, he stared at his hands, at his legs. "Dress it up any way you want to, but it's true. Two days ago, I wouldn't have been able to say it. I don't know why I can now, and maybe tomorrow I'll be back to how I was. I don't know."

Tim paused and heard some shifting. No words. No touch. Tim spoke alone. He both appreciated the fact that he wasn't being touched and felt hurt by the fact that he couldn't feel anyone close by. He knew they were there, but...like when he couldn't speak, he felt separated. Only in this case, it was because he himself felt that there was a wall, not one he had built, just one that had sprung up between them.

"Carew didn't threaten me this time. No matter what kind of a person he is, he never threatened me. I could have said no. I could have refused. He wouldn't have made me and he wouldn't have done what the others did. He didn't have to because he understands me...because he's like me."

There was more shifting, and Tim knew someone (probably Tony or Abby) was getting ready to speak.

"He is...or he was. Not exactly. He went further than...well, than I hope I'd ever go. I'll never know for sure because he didn't let me...and I doubt that I'll ever be in the same position. But...but in that moment, I was ready to kill him...because he stopped me from getting revenge. He wouldn't let me kill her...and I wanted to. I wanted to more than I ever have wanted to kill someone in my life. I pretended that it would get justice for the people I helped kill. I intentionally focused only on how angry I was and how much I hated them. It made it easier to deal with the fact that I was doing something I swore I would never do, never again."

More stirring, but Tim knew that he wouldn't be able to finish what he had to say if he didn't keep talking...so he did.

"But...inside I knew it was wrong. It was wrong and I did it anyway. It was wrong and I kept trying to do it. I forced Carew to take me with him. I forced him to give me a gun. It wasn't for defense. It wasn't even so that I could make sure it was really over. It was so I could make my handler suffer like she had made me suffer. When I finished making that program, I cried for an hour, but that was all. I stopped myself from feeling anything else. That was wrong."

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, but he couldn't tell whose it was (probably not Abby's. She would have gone for the hug.). He couldn't bring himself to look up. The hand was comforting, but not enough.

"I can't tell you why. Well, I can't give you a _good_ reason for it. The reason why is not a good one...but what makes it worse is..." Tim stopped, his head dropping lower, shoulders hunching. This was the hardest thing to say and he didn't want to. It was hard to even form the words. "...is that...I can't think of anything I could have done differently. I really don't think I could have...survived if I hadn't done what I did...but what I did was wrong. What else could I do? Why is it that the only way to live through it had to be...so bad? Why did it have to be the wrong choice...but the only choice?"

He was trembling again, and through the trembling, he felt another hand, an arm in fact, encircling his shoulders. There was a part of him that wanted to throw off the kind hands, to force them all away, but he didn't. Not this time.

"I could have...I could be him. Carew and I...we're alike. I think that's the worst thing because I don't want to end up like him."

Tim came to a stop and didn't speak anymore. No one else did for a few seconds either. They were just there. Then, came the questions. He hated the questions.

"How do you know about Carew?"

That was Gibbs. "He told me."

"He didn't have long enough, Probie. He only spoke to you for a few seconds." Tony.

"He gave me access to his files."

"What? Why would he do such a thing?" Ziva.

"I don't know. You'd have to ask him."

"When did you even have time to look at them, Tim?" Abby spoke. He hadn't seen her in a while...and he'd missed her.

"I was alone at Director Shephard's house. I was coherent enough to think about it and wonder."

"What did you find in there?" Tony, again. He was curious.

"Carew."

"Details, McGee." Still, Tony.

"No."

"Why not?" Abby.

"Because, it's his personal file."

"So? He hasn't exactly shown a whole lot of respect for others."

"Does that mean that I should sink to his level?" Tim asked, still not daring to look up. "Carew would do it, so that makes it okay? That's not what he gave me the information for."

"Why then, McGee?" Gibbs. He always sounded so calm.

"Maybe he wanted to help me understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why he did what he did. It doesn't mean I like him, that I think he's a good person, that he's excused for his actions...but at least I know."

"What do you know?" Ziva.

Tim hesitated. He wasn't sure how far he wanted to go.

"What, McGee?" Tony.

"He...he didn't want me to be like him," Tim said. "Finally, something we could agree on. I don't want to be like him and have to do the things he has had to do...and no, I'm not going to tell you what they are."

"McGee...are your hands that interesting?" Ziva, but sounding like Tony.

"Not really."

"Then, look up." Abby, sounding so logical.

"I don't know if I can." It was true. Looking up seemed more difficult than speaking had been when his Broca's area had been shut down. Looking up meant confronting the fact that he was not like his teammates, his friends, that he had changed so monumentally that he might never feel like himself again.

"Then, let me help." Abby, followed by what must be her hand under his chin. She lifted it and Tim was forced to look into her eyes. He didn't see what he had expected. There was only a searching glance. "You're still afraid," she said.

"Yes."

"We screwed up before, McGee. We told you that you were safe, that you didn't have anything to worry about." Tim shifted his eyes to Tony who looked guilty.

"You were right. I didn't...not until they got out." Tim tried to smile.

"You're not afraid of them?"

"No. There's something much more frightening." Tim dropped his gaze to his hands again.

"What?" Ziva asked.

"I'm...it's that...well..." Finding the words was so hard, almost painful. "...I'm not who I thought I was."

"You have a different name, Probie?" Tony asked, trying like he had before to lighten the mood with a joke. Tim didn't get mad at him for it this time, however. It just made him feel sad that Tony, even with the life he'd lived and the things he'd seen, was still whole enough to find things funny. At this moment, nothing seemed funny to Tim, and he didn't see how it possibly could change.

"No...I just wish I did."

Abby lifted his head again and then hugged him tightly. "You don't have to do that, Tim. Change doesn't have to be bad."

"It's not change, Abby," Tim corrected, and he found that he couldn't bear to look any of them in the eye. Instead, his eyes wandered around, not settling on anyone. Abby was crouched in front of him. Tony was on the right, Ziva on the left...Gibbs...standing, his own eyes darting around as if he expected an ambush. Tim himself was surprised that he wasn't worried about the same thing. Last time, he'd been so jumpy he'd needed to stay with people from NCIS for weeks. This time...nothing.

"What is it, then?"

"It's that...I'm supposed to be...a certain way, a certain person...and I'm not. I'm not that person. I'm almost a stranger...to myself. I'm not used to...to _feeling_ the way I did. I didn't think I could. I didn't think...it was possible." Tim looked at Tony with desperation. "I'm the geek, Tony! How many times have you said that? I'm the geek. I might resent the nickname, but I've always known it was true! ...but it's not. Geeks don't...don't do what I did. So...what does that make me? Who am I now? _What_ am I?"

Tim was surprised when none of them backed away from his raving...and he knew it was raving, even as he said the words. It was not the speech of a...sane person. He was slipping.

Thus far, Gibbs had let the others do the talking and the wild and free part of Tim wondered if he was waiting until he didn't feel like smacking him to speak.

Gibbs was suddenly right there, in Tim's face, not yelling, just saying his piece so emphatically that Tim couldn't help but marvel at his enunciation.

"You are an NCIS agent. You are Timothy McGee, a computer expert. You have a sister and parents who love you. You have a team who has dropped everything in order to help you. Just because you suddenly discovered that even geeks feel things doesn't mean that you are suddenly a different person. You are the same."

"But..."

"No buts, McGee," Gibbs said. "You aren't...whole, perhaps, but you are still the same person you were. You just need time to deal with it all."

"I just..." Tim looked away again. "What if I do that again?"

"Do what? Get angry? You're trying to say you never lost your temper before?" Abby asked, grinning.

"It's not that...and it's not funny," Tim said. Abby's smiled faded. "You don't understand. You can't...and I can't explain it." Tim sighed in frustration. He shouldn't have tried to explain at all. It wasn't helping. "Never mind. Thanks for worrying, guys, but..."

"Tim, you are trying to pull away again," Ziva pointed out. "This is not over, just because you wish it to be."

"You think I don't realize that, Ziva?" Tim shouted. He took a quick breath. "Sorry. You know what? I think...I need to be alone, okay?"

"McGee..." Tony protested.

"Please...no more. I can't...deal with it right now," Tim begged. He looked away from them all. He felt the hands and arms recede. He added in a whisper, "No more questions."

Gibbs spoke first. "Okay, McGee...but we're not leaving you here. You're coming back tonight, got it?"

"Yeah, Boss," Tim said.

"Okay."

Whatever Gibbs did to make everyone leave, Tim didn't know, but he felt them go...as if he were a man who had been warming himself by a fire and suddenly found himself alone in the cold. As soon as everyone was gone, Tim realized that he really did feel alone when they were gone. He had thought it couldn't possibly be more lonely than to be surrounded by people living a different life...he was wrong.

All the same, he sighed with relief when everyone was gone. There was too much pressure to answer questions he couldn't be words to...or he didn't _want_ to put words to. For another hour, he sat in the same place, saying nothing, doing nothing...just sitting. Finally, he came to a conclusion.

"I'm so screwed up," he said aloud.

"No."

The voice took Tim by surprise. He hadn't felt anyone come. He looked up.

"What are you doing here?"

"You need to talk. So talk."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: The Words of Truth Are Hard**

"What makes you think that I _want_ to talk to you?" Tim retorted, finding refuge in his anger.

"What makes you think that I care?"

"You're here," Tim pointed out. "You don't have to be. I don't like you, and I _don't_ want you here...so, Brie..." He took pleasure in noting her look of surprise. "...it seems like _you're_ the one who should be answering questions."

"Why did he tell you that name?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask him."

There was a silence as Tim stared at a person he felt nothing but loathing for. No matter what her excuse, at the end of the day, she had nearly killed him...and seemed to feel no guilt about that. Instead of leaving, as he expected her to, Tara sat on the bench across the path and raised her eyebrows at him...just waiting.

"What do you expect me to say?" Tim asked.

"Whatever it is you need to get off your chest still. Your friends, as well-meaning as they might be, can't understand you. They can't understand what you did, how you felt, how you still feel."

"Oh? Are you offering yourself up as an alternative?"

"Are you going to deny that I have some experience with what you've gone through?"

Tim stopped mid-syllable. "Why are you here?" he asked

Tara's mask wasn't as settled as her father's. She smiled a little. "I saw your face."

"When? You had plenty of opportunities."

"When you finished the program."

Tim looked away, not wanting to resort to his own mask, but not wanting to look at her as he felt his face twist.

"You looked like you had just killed someone, like something you loved was lost forever."

"And?" There was no more challenge in the tone of his voice. He couldn't muster up the courage to express it.

"And I remember when I felt like that."

"Did you ever?"

"Of course. I was raised much like you were...barring the CIA father. I have...had a brother and two sisters. We did the usual things: went to school, learned about right and wrong, black and white. We never learned about the shades of gray."

"Gray...that's what Carew says." Tim looked back. "It doesn't have to be gray if you don't want it to be."

"Doesn't it?" Tara asked. "The people we fight against, they don't play by the rules. They don't care about hurting innocent people, about stealing. They don't operate by any moral code. If we do, we are playing into their hands."

"And if you don't, what separates you from them? Huh?" Tim asked. He looked back. "That is just an excuse to do what you please. You don't care about innocents any more than they do. All you care about is achieving your own ends."

"The ends justify the means."

"No matter who gets hurt along the way?"

"Exactly."

"No!" Tim shouted...and then stopped himself from losing control. "The individual people matter. It matters if one person gets killed or if a thousand...because, if you don't care about one person, how much can you care about the millions you are supposedly defending?"

"We all sacrifice the individual, Agent McGee. It doesn't matter what we do. If we only focus on one person we are considered close-minded, short-sighted or narcissistic."

"Sometimes, individuals have to be sacrificed, but that doesn't mean you can't care about them."

"If we cared about every person who got hurt, Agent McGee...we'd be like...well, like you: torn apart by the guilt of having lost one along the way."

"You think that caring about nothing is better?"

"In my job? Yes."

"Then, I pity you," Tim said.

The silence that followed his statement was so profound that he had to look at her. Her face had the strangest expression.

"Pity?" she asked.

"Yes. Pity...because you lose out on good relationships if you have to look at every person as expendable. I may have lost my mind...I may lose it again, but I'll take this...this torment and agony I feel over the nothingness that you have to choose. I'll take it any day...even if it ends up killing me. What kind of a life can you have if you don't value life at all?"

"And if you can't enjoy the life you have?" she challenged.

"What life do _you_ really have?" Tim shot back. "Do you even have an identity anymore or is it that you simply wear names and faces like a series of masks? I may have trouble...I may not ever get over this. I don't know. I really don't...and I don't know if I can ever forgive you for your hand in it...but what I do know is that if I lived like you, I might as well be dead."

"And you really feel this way."

"Yes. I lived a sheltered life growing up. It was easy, I'll admit. I was, perhaps, a little naive when I started working at NCIS, but accepting that the world can be an evil place doesn't mean that you have to embrace the evil."

"You're still using the wrong terminology, Agent McGee."

Tim looked away again, this time up to the trees. Even though Central Park was as much a part of New York City as Broadway, Tim still found it amazing to have all this greenery in the middle of such a crowded place.

"Wrong terminology? Perhaps for your world, but not for mine. In mine, there is good and there is bad. There is legal and illegal."

"So...really, your trouble stems from some old-fashioned moral compass."

"Old-fashioned?" Tim asked. "I...I can't even fathom what your world must look like."

There was a short laugh, but Tim didn't meet Tara's eyes. "Yours is obviously rose-tinted."

Tim let out a sour laugh. "You really think so? You think that I could have done what I did seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses?" His voice became rough. "You think that I could sit here and talk to someone like you by seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses? I don't. I see the world as a place with right and wrong."

"And you the knight on the white steed?" Tara asked derisively.

Tim had to clench his teeth for a moment before speaking. "No. Never."

Tara looked at him with that same strange expression. "And yet you persist in believing in right and wrong?"

Tim finally met her eyes straight on, not bothering to try and hide how he felt. "Right and wrong doesn't change because I have changed. What I did was wrong. I betrayed my own sense of right and wrong to work for you and Carew. I betrayed myself when I allowed myself to forget that there is right and wrong. I shouldn't have gone with Carew. I should have stayed where I was."

"And ended up never speaking again?"

"Yes. If I were true to my own sense of right and wrong, I would have...but I wasn't. I compromised. Most people would have. I compromised further when I agreed to rebuild the program. I compromised again when I finished it. I compromised again when I decided that I wanted to kill my handler. I compromised yet again when I tried to kill her. There's only so much you can compromise your values before you either have to abandon them or break down. I broke."

"Is it worth it, Agent McGee?"

"Is what worth what?"

"Is this...value system you subscribe to worth the aggravation? I find it hard to believe that we are the first people to give you fits about it."

"_You_ haven't done anything. It's my choice. I could end up like you, but I don't want to...and I don't know how to be any other way. It's all or nothing. ...and yes, it's worth the aggravation. I would suffer through a lot worse for it. What do you have?"

Tara's mouth smiled. "I have my country...a little safer from its enemies."

Finally, Tim asked, "What about the people?"

"That's the country."

"No...the country exists because of its people and the people make up the country. If you ignore the people, then what are you saving?"

A stalemate. Two people having experienced the same things and yet looking at it so differently that they might as well have been from different planets. Neither one was giving up what they believed. Tim just stared at Tara as she stared at him. Against his will, he felt a bit of a kindred feeling for her. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn't. He could talk to her like this because she already knew the worst of what he had done...and maybe because he knew that she didn't judge him for it. To her, the only problem with Tim was the fact that he _did_ judge himself for the things he'd done.

"Probie!" The voice floated down from up the trail.

"Carew said you were an honest man. I don't think that's changed," Tara said.

"I don't care if you want to be alone. You aren't going to be in about three seconds so prepare yourself!"

Tim looked toward Tony's voice...and when he looked back, Tara was gone...as if she'd never been there at all. Maybe she hadn't. Maybe he'd imagined her...

...but no. There was a piece of paper on the bench where she'd been sitting. Quickly, Tim took off the brakes and wheeled over to the bench. He picked up the paper and shoved it into his pocket just as Tony appeared.

"McGee!"

Tim wondered, as he watched Tony approach, why it was that he felt so much safer around Tony...and so much worse about himself. It was easier, with Tara, to pretend that there was nothing wrong...or at least that not much was wrong. Whenever he saw someone on his team, he knew that what he had done _was_ wrong.

"What, Tony?"

"I thought I heard you talking to someone else."

"I thought I was."

"And you weren't?"

"We certainly weren't getting through to each other," Tim said, staring off down the path.

"McGee?" Tony asked, his voice sounding hesitant.

"What?" Tim turned back and was surprised to see Tony looking so concerned.

"I need to know something."

"What?"

"Why did you leave me that quotation from _Solaris_?"

To Tim's surprise, he felt like smiling. He did so, feeling the muscles make the unfamiliar motion. He even chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Tony asked.

"I'm not sure," Tim said, still chuckling a little bit.

"You're not going to start crying are you?"

Tim stopped laughing and his smile faded. "No. Not this time."

"Oh, McGee...I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Tony."

"So...why?"

"I needed to. It wasn't to really tell you anything."

"It wasn't?" Tony seemed almost disappointed.

"No. I...I knew what was coming, how much I'd...cut myself off, and at that moment, I wanted to _make_ connections, not destroy them. I was afraid I'd...mess you guys up, but..."

"But why that one? There were quite a few you could have chosen, you know."

"I know. That one...just seemed to fit, I guess." Tim paused. "Tony..."

"What?"

"Have I messed things up?"

Tony walked over to where Tara had been sitting minutes before. "Of course not," he said bracingly.

"Tony, please. Please, be honest. I need that."

"Why, McGee?"

"I need to hear it. I need to know that you're thinking the same things I am."

"Why? We never think the same things. You're much too esoteric."

"Good word. Please, Tony."

Tony leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. For a long moment, he didn't say a word. He just sat. Tim waited, feeling afraid of the answer.

"I don't know, Tim."

Tim nodded slowly.

"I just don't know. I mean...you're McGee...but...you're not..."

"...not acting like him."

"No. I'm sorry," Tony said. He seemed more reluctant than Tim had been to look up. "I wish you were. I wish we could just snap our fingers and have it all never have happened...all the way back to last year."

"...but we can't do that. I...I don't know, Tony. Maybe it's best this way."

Tony finally looked up. "Best?"

"Yeah. Maybe I needed to know this about myself."

"Know what?"

"That I'm...that I have..." Tim couldn't get the words out. "...that I live in the gray area." He closed his eyes to deny what he'd said, even though he knew it was true.

"What are you talking about?"

Tim smiled because he felt the tears and he had said he wasn't going to cry again. "It's a movie, Tony. You must have seen it."

"What movie?"

"_Clear and Present Danger_."

Tony finally looked up. He had started to deny but then his mouth shaped an "oh". "You're not Ritter, McGee."

"He's the one who said the world is gray?" Tim asked.

"Yeah."

"Maybe I am. What they were doing was a good thing on the surface, getting rid of drug dealers. That's not bad, but the way they went about it was all wrong."

"There's a big difference you're missing, McGee."

"What's that?"

"They all got into that willingly...except for Jack Ryan. He didn't even _know_ he was a part of it at first. When he found out, he went about things in a different way, but in the end, he stood up for his side. Black and white and right and wrong and all that. Don't you see, McGee? So do you. The reason you hate yourself so much right now is _because_ of what you believe. Ritter didn't believe it. Maybe once he did, but not in the movie. Those guys only hated that they got caught. You hated getting caught up in the whole mess."

Tim couldn't help smiling, but it wasn't because he felt better. It was because Tony could be so eloquent when speaking about movies.

"One other thing to think about, McGee."

"What?"

"Everyone has a gray area. Gibbs does. I do. Ziva does. Good guys have gray areas. Bad guys...they don't."

Tim's forehead furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Come on. You're a smart guy. Think about it. Bad guys have crossed the line. Gray is not crossing the line. It's flirting with the line. Good motives, lousy execution. Bad guys...bad motives, sometimes flawless execution."

Tim laughed again and took a deep breath.

"But we all have gray areas. Remember gray has white in it, too."

"Stop while you're ahead, Tony," Tim said softly.

"Pretty bad, huh? ...but hey, it illustrates my point completely! Good intention, lousy execution."

"You're worried, aren't you," Tim said.

"Yeah."

"So am I."

"Well...just don't try to muddle through on your own. We're here for a reason, Tim."

"Yeah, I know...and I appreciate it. It's just that..."

"We don't get it, do we."

"No. You don't."

"At least let us try."

Tim looked at Tony for a while in silence. "What if it doesn't work?"

"What have we lost by trying?"

"Good point."

"So?"

"Okay."

"Good, then, let's get out of here before we get mugged," Tony said standing and stretching ostentatiously.

"Central Park is very safe now, you know."

"So you say...until you are on the receiving end of a mugging."

Tim half-smiled, thought about mentioning the kid he'd confronted, and thought the better of it. Instead, he focused his attention on rolling his wheelchair up the hill. Tony surprised him by grabbing the handles and pushing him.

"You need to get out of this thing, McGee. You're too heavy," Tony said behind him.

"I know. I can't wait."

One hand moved from the handle to Tim's shoulder, reminiscent of how Tony had come behind him in Autopsy when Kate had died.

"You'll make it that far."

"Yeah."

As they left, Tim turned his head and looked into the trees off the trail. He caught a flash of color. Tara...Brie...whatever her name was. She had been listening. Would they always be listening?


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: Speak Freely to All**

It took two more weeks for Tim's legs to become strong enough for him to hobble around like an invalid...instead of roll around like a cripple. He moved back into his apartment, to everyone's relief. People popped by often...very often, letting them get a sneak peek at Tim's sanity and allowing them to give him any help he needed. Someone showed up every day to help him get outside, drive him to his appointments. Tim accepted it all with considerable grace, at least on the surface. He always seemed lost in thought, however, and the expression on his face sometimes revealed bitter thoughts.

There were some significant differences in Tim's recovery this time versus his recovery the first time. One, he wasn't afraid of leaving his apartment, at least not that he showed. He didn't mind being alone in his apartment. He also seemed to have no trouble dropping the mask. It showed up very rarely...or so they thought. It never occurred to them that Tim might be faking his expressions. They simply accepted what they saw. They _wanted_ to accept it, even Tony, even after his conversation with Tim in Central Park. It was easier to think that Tim was getting better than to think that he might be backpedaling, stagnating or possibly lying to them again. Easier...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim sat in his apartment. The lights were off, the main room bathed in the dim glow of his computer screens. His typewriter sat morosely neglected on the writing desk. Tim couldn't write. He used his computer...a lot...and not for games. He hadn't played a single computer game since he'd come back. No, he was hacking most nights. Well, it couldn't really be called hacking. He had no trouble getting in and out. It was easy with the backdoor access he'd been given. He wasn't sure why he had it and he wasn't sure why he was using it. This is what took up his time in the evenings...and the nights. He wasn't sleeping much. Of course, part of that was due to the fact that he just wasn't doing a whole lot at the moment. He was used to late nights and early mornings...and he didn't need to do either one. Sooner or later, he'd need to go back to NCIS, but for the moment, he didn't mind floating around aimlessly. His life was kind of adrift at the moment, and he was letting it stay that way. It was easier than thinking. Easier...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Ziva knew she was closest to Tim...geographically-speaking. Both of them lived in Silver Spring, and she knew that it would be her job to check on him in the event of someone worrying about him. She had dropped by on her way back from work. Tim had been withdrawn, silent...even more than had become usual. She had asked him what was wrong, but he had just shrugged and said that he was thinking. That was his response to too many questions: _I'm thinking_. Thinking what? He'd never say. So, here Ziva was, sitting in her apartment, knowing that she had let Tim push her off...or whatever the saying was. She knew she was close. She knew that she had let him do that because it was easier than trying to get at whatever the problem was. Easier...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

There was a phone number in Tim's hand. He pulled it out as he had so many times in the last two weeks. He wasn't sure _exactly_ what it was, but he was almost positive he knew. What he didn't know was why Tara had given it to him. It wasn't her handwriting...it was Carew's. The clock ticked over from 9:59 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. Tim stared at the clock, wondering how long it would take him to fall asleep tonight...and what he'd dream about. Would it be his old nightmares of light and pain and people begging for mercy? Or would his new nightmares take hold, the ones in which he was the merciless killer? _10:01 p.m._ Why would he have this number? Why would Carew give it to him? Why? Why? Why? It would be easier to throw it away and pretend that he had no need, no desire to speak to Carew again. It would be a lie, but it would be easier. Easier...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Ziva paced back and forth in her apartment. Her mind was saying one thing, but her heart was saying another. She didn't trust her heart. The heart was a messy place, full of logical fallacies and courses that led only to more pain and heartache. However, at this moment, she didn't particularly trust her head either because it wasn't being reliable. It was searching for the easy way out. She knew that something was wrong with Tim. She _knew_ it. She also knew that no one had tried very hard to find out what it was...not because he had evaded them, but because it was _easier_ not to ask. Easier...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

But easier did not mean better...for anyone.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Finally, throwing caution to the winds, Tim hobbled into his bedroom. It was even darker in there...no computer lights. No lights at all. Tim wasn't sure why he didn't bother to turn on the lights when the sun set...but he didn't. He sat down on his bed, tossed the crutches to the side, and pulled out the phone. Carefully, slowly, with trembling hands, he dialed the number from the paper. The phone rang...and rang...and rang. Tim was about to hang up when there was a connection.

"_Hello, Agent McGee."_

Yes, just as he had expected. "How did you know that it would be me calling?" Tim asked.

He could nearly hear Carew smile that annoying all-knowing smile of his, his black eyes twinkling with some private amusement. _"Because fewer people have access to this phone number, which bypasses the outer office, by the way, fewer people have this phone number than have the number that does the same thing for your director."_

"What?"

"_Oh, surely, you must have realized that there is a way of bypassing Cynthia. It's difficult to do...unless you have a specific phone number. There are a select few. You are now one of them for my office. I suppose once my tenure is over, you could call and leave nasty messages for my successor."_

"Why did you give me this number?"

"_I had a feeling that you might wish to call."_

"Why?"

"_There are unanswered questions in your head, are there not?"_

"Sure, but that doesn't answer my question."

"_I will endeavor to answer questions that have answers, Agent McGee. Beyond that, you are on your own."_

"Okay. Why did you give me backdoor access to the CIA?"

"_You may need it."_

"For what?"

"_Why did you need to hack the CIA before? Things come up sometimes."_

"Things? Like what?"

"_Again, you are asking questions I cannot answer, Agent McGee. Is there anything you wanted to know?"_

"I do have a question...and I need an answer."

"_Need?_"

Tim struggled to remain calm. He managed it most of the time, but there were times when he could feel himself ready to fly off the handle. This was one of those times.

"Yes, need. Will you answer it?"

"_I make no guarantee of that. Need or not, some things I will not answer."_

"Why did you stop me?"

"_Stop you from doing what?"_

Tim figured that Carew knew what he was asking, but he didn't point that out. It wouldn't help.

"Stop me from from killing my handler."

"_Are you saying that you still wish I hadn't?"_

"No. That's not what I'm saying, but I don't understand why you did it...and I need to."

"_Why? Accept that I did and move on."_

"I can't."

"_Why not?"_

"Because...what you did makes no sense."

"_Really."_

"You didn't have to do it. It doesn't fit into your responsibilities. I would have killed her and that would be that. Just because you wanted revenge, doesn't mean that you had to be the one to pull the trigger."

"_You felt that you had to."_

"But I was out of my mind."

"_And you think I was not."_

"I don't think you _allow_ yourself that luxury."

"_You're right. I don't."_

"So...why?" Tim tried to keep the pleading out of his voice, but he wasn't sure he succeeded.

"_I told you, Agent McGee. You don't have become like me."_

"How would–?"

"_Oh, come now. I know that you have read my personal file. I gave you access to it and I know that you took advantage of that."_

"We're not the same," Tim said firmly.

"_Not anymore we aren't, but I know that you've seen my history."_

"So...why did you leave college for the CIA?"

"_Oh, I didn't leave college. I merely changed majors...and I did so because I saw where I could do the most good. Teachers are needed in this world, but not many people can do what I do."_

"That being the case, why did you care if I became like you?"

"_Because, Agent McGee, this country also needs people like you."_

"What kind of people is that?"

"_People who care about the rules, who have their own moral compass and are willing to defend the law _and_ the people."_

"And you don't care about the people."

"_Oh, I care a great deal about the people. Haven't you figured it out yet, Agent McGee? The people _are_ the country. My first responsibility is to them...to do what is most advantageous to them...without having to ask their permission. People don't often think about the fact that nasty things have to go on, but they expect the same results regardless."_ There was a pause and Tim could hear Carew shifting around. _"You think that we need to have the law, and you're right...but we also need people who will break the law, like me."_

"If people like me are so vital, why did you risk destroying that by forcing me to work for you?"

"_Because there are more important things than the individual. If you had been lost, there would have been another coming in your place. It would have been inconvenient, but tolerable. What you don't see is that the main reason for getting rid of that group was because they were killing US citizens. I would have been more than willing to allow their continued existence if they had focused on our enemies. However, once they began to kill to preserve their anonymity...their usefulness ended and I would have used and did use every resource at my disposal to get rid of them."_

"It wasn't all about that."

"_No, you're right. I was nicely able to achieve two ends with one actions. No, I was truly motivated by revenge just as you were. The difference is that I would not have involved you had revenge been all that was on my mind."_

"You expect me to believe that?"

"_No, but that doesn't mean that it is not true. Agent McGee, you know more about me now than perhaps any person in the world, including my family. Do you think, knowing what you know, that I would lie to make myself look better in your eyes?"_

Tim didn't want to answer, didn't want to ascribe any positive attribute to Carew at all...but he couldn't help but be as honest as he knew Carew had been.

"No...I don't. So...you stopped me because–?"

"_Because it would have been worse for you to kill that woman than it would have been for me to do the same thing. I don't want you to think that I am wishing someone had done the same for me, Agent McGee, because that is not the case. I'm a practical man and I will use whatever means available to me to accomplish my tasks. Now, was there anything else?"_

Tim wished that he could get a rise out of Carew somehow, but he figured that, not only was it unlikely, he also was not feeling up to it mentally.

"What if I spread this number around?"

"_Nothing. People who are not on the list would start calling and we would change the number...and you would no longer have access to me."_

"Why would I _want_ access?"

"_You know why. The same reason that you have been accessing the CIA through the backdoor I gave you every night this week."_

"You're watching me?" That made Tim angry. He hated being watched, observed. "Can't you people just leave me alone and stop watching me?"

"_No, Agent McGee. We can't."_

"Why not? You got your revenge. It's over."

"_Naivete has its limits of utility."_

"I don't understand."

"_We're watching you for your protection...and for our own. You know too much, Agent McGee. You have now successfully hacked into every major federal agency. You have twice constructed a program that would pose a terrible, possibly fatal, danger to the United States were it to fall into foreign hands, even those of our allies. You _know_ not merely surmise the makeup of those federal agencies. If your abilities and achievements were to get out, your freedom would have less existence than dark matter."_

"So...I have to deal with this for how long?"

"_As long as is necessary."_

"How long is that?"

"_Until you are obsolete...which, considering your skills and your age, could be a very long time."_

Tim realized that sometime during Carew's explanation, he'd stood up and begun pacing. He tried to stop because it hurt his legs to walk with no support...but he couldn't stop.

"Are you–?" Tim couldn't try to pretend it didn't bother him. He heard the desperate note in his voice. "Not...you're not in..."

"_No, Agent McGee. You have my word. There are no listening devices or cameras in your apartment. We are not watching you to get information, only to prevent it from spreading. We already established that you will not willingly reveal information. Don't think about it. There are no more people watching you than are generally. They're just paying a bit more attention now."_

Tim went over his final statement in his head. "You have people in NCIS."

"_Of course. Just as NCIS, the FBI, the NSA all have people inside the CIA. It's a recognized way of getting information on each other since we are generally less than forthcoming with each other. It goes with the territory."_

There was a pounding on his door and Tim nearly jumped out of his skin. He dropped the phone and winced as he put too much pressure on his legs.

"McGee! It is Ziva!"

Tim sighed. He had thought he was free from people staring at him for a little while.

"Just a minute!" he called and then knelt down painfully to pick up his phone. When he picked it up, the phone was dead. Carew was not there. "Figures," he muttered. He tossed the phone onto the bed and then fumbled for his crutches. Wincing, he regretted having allowed himself to get so worked up before. It only made walking around right now worse. He hobbled to the door and opened it. "Hey, Ziva. What's up?"

"That is what I should be asking you, McGee," Ziva said, stepping inside uninvited. She walked by him. "Why are you still awake?"

"Um...what?" Tim asked, hobbling after her. He reached his computer chair and sat down, relishing the relief.

"You had physical therapy today. You also had your other therapy. I would have thought you were tired."

Tim knew that it was really just the extra sensitivity after discovering that he was still being watched, but he felt angry.

"I'm an adult, Ziva. It's not your business whether or not I'm tired. Besides, if I was in bed, then you coming over would be an annoyance." _Like it is right now._

He might as well have spoken the thought. Ziva caught the edge.

"McGee, what is wrong?"

"What could possibly be wrong?"

"No, you are not answering questions with questions this time. You are not just going to say that you are thinking." She grabbed his writing chair and pulled it over to him. "Do you think that you are the only person to have ever wanted revenge?"

"No, I don't, Ziva."

"Then, why is it that you act like it is the end of the world because you got angry and did things you regret? Do you think that _I_ have never felt that?"

"It's not the same, Ziva."

"Why?"

"Because...you were _trained_ for that. You were ready for it. I wasn't."

Ziva looked incredulous. "You think that anyone can be ready for the first time they cross the line? You are more ignorant than I would have thought. You cannot be ready for that. It gets easier every time you do it...until you look back and realize that the line has disappeared."

"What do you do then?" Tim asked.

Ziva shook her head, clearing it of memories. "It does not matter, McGee. You have not reached that point."

Tim sighed and pushed himself to his feet. "Maybe I will go to bed, Ziva. Thanks for stopping by." _Go to bed and have nightmares._ He started toward his bedroom, but Ziva stopped him.

"McGee, wait. Why are you running away from us? We wish to help you."

"I know that, Ziva, but you can't," Tim said and tried to continue on his way. Ziva didn't let go of his crutch. So...he let go of the crutch and made it into his bedroom with only one. He sank down onto his bed when he heard Ziva coming behind him.

"Why is it that you think we cannot help?"

"Because...you just don't get it, Ziva." Tim looked at her. "It doesn't matter what _you've_ done. It doesn't matter what Tony's done. It doesn't matter what Tara's done. What matters is what _I've_ done...and I've done things that I shouldn't have done. That won't change. I wish it could, but it won't."

Ziva sat down beside him and put her hand on his knee, just above his brace. "It does not have to change."

"Well, that's good because it's not going to," Tim replied, staring straight ahead.

"No, what I mean is that you do not have to think of this as something which _must_ change or else. You can incorporate it into who you are without...losing yourself."

"How do I do that, Ziva? Remember? I went crazy because of what I did."

Ziva hesitated and then turned him toward her. "At least you could still feel enough to do that."

"What are you talking about?"

"It took a year for me to be able to really cry for my brother."

"Ari?"

"Yes." Ziva hesitated again. "I buried what I did as surely as you tried to...only I succeeded."

"What you did? I don't understand."

"I killed Ari to save Gibbs."

"No...Gibbs killed Ari."

"No. It would have been worse for me in Israel if they had known it was I who killed him."

"You shot your brother," Tim said, almost begging her to deny it.

"Yes." Ziva took her hand away and clasped her hands together.

"Why?"

Ziva looked at him, hurt by his question. "Why?"

"Yes. You cared for Ari. I know that. Regardless of what he did, you cared for him. Why did you kill him to save Gibbs?"

"To save Gibbs. Ari...he had...changed from who he was when we were young. Gibbs might be a lot of things, but he was right. He asked me to be his backup. I agreed because...deep down, a part of me knew that Ari was guilty."

"How did you–?"

"By pushing it away...but it could not stay away forever. I still dream about it, seeing him die. It is worse knowing that it is not just a dream."

Tim took her hand and was a little surprised that she didn't pull away.

"I have dreams...some are real...some aren't."

Ziva put her other hand on top of Tim's. "About what?"

"Sometimes it's from before. Sometimes, it's from this time."

"What, McGee?"

Tim couldn't look at Ziva. He settled for their hands. "Killing people. People begging for mercy. ...and the light."

"Still?"

"Yes."

"Before this?"

"Yes."

"Why did you not tell us?"

"It's supposed to be over."

"No, McGee," Ziva said. She moved around so that she was facing him, and knelt on the floor. "There is no supposed to. You cannot think that way. If it is not over for you, it is not over."

"Everyone seems to get over these things. Why can't I?" Tim asked.

"What do you mean? You think that suppressing things like Gibbs, avoiding them like Tony, pretending they do not exist like me...you think that is better than facing them as you have?"

"Maybe..."

"No. You deal with things as you do and that is not wrong. What is wrong is thinking that you are evil for feeling as you did."

"Carew isn't evil," Tim said. It was a _non sequitur_ that seemed to throw Ziva off for a moment.

"No, he is not," she agreed.

"But that doesn't mean he's good."

"No, that is also true."

"Even if I'm not evil..."

"You are being illogical, McGee," Ziva said, now smiling just a bit. "You are not Carew, no matter how many similarities you may see in his file. Carew made choices you did not make, and that makes you different. You are good." Tim still wasn't looking at her exactly and she lowered her head so that he had to either look at her or close his eyes. "You are a good man. You have not changed that part of you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I am very sure."

"Why did you come here tonight, Ziva?"

As Tim's head lifted, Ziva got a mischievous smile on her face. "Maybe I came to seduce you in your vulnerable state."

Tim laughed, but it was full of more than mirth.

She sobered. "Or maybe I just came to give you what you need."

He gave a tentative smile. "What do I need?"

Slowly, Ziva pulled her hands away from his. Then, equally slowly, she put her arms around him and gave him a hug.

"You need a friend, McGee. And I am here to let you know that you have many friends...if you are willing to let us in."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: Understand with Their Hearts**

Two more weeks passed and the day of Tim's return to NCIS loomed large in everyone's minds. They all wanted Tim to come back, but it was a little nerve-wracking...and they wondered what he would be like. Even after talking with Ziva, he hadn't been particularly effusive. He didn't smile much. It seemed to take a lot for a smile to crack his lips...and even more for that smile to reach his eyes. Knowing something didn't make it suddenly okay. Tim, for his part, wondered who in NCIS was reporting to the CIA, who was watching him. Was it someone he knew? What if it was? What if...what if it was someone on his team? What if it was Ducky? Palmer? Michelle Lee? ...Cynthia? Who was watching him? He tried not to think about it...and he failed miserably. In fact, he was making himself sick...and he wasn't fast enough to make it to the bathroom.

After cleaning up the puke on the floor, Tim sat beside the spot and berated himself for getting so paranoid. He didn't even know how to bring this up to anyone...because what if it was them? There was _someone_ in NCIS. He didn't know how many someones or who they were. That wasn't all. Even with Carew's assurance that he wasn't being watched in his apartment, he still couldn't help examining every nook and cranny...and he found nothing.

"Next phase?" he asked the empty air. "Instead of only hating myself, I get to become paranoid? Maybe Abby could lend me her straightjacket." Tim lay down on the floor beside his bed. At first, he was simply supine, but then, he gradually began to curl into a fetal position. His phone rang and he debated answering it. On the one hand, it would be nice to hear an outside voice, but on the other hand, he didn't feel up to speaking to anyone. His last therapy session had passed mostly in silence...He had been thinking, but it was still difficult for him to put it into words...and he was getting tired of trying.

His phone stopped ringing and then started up again. Still, Tim didn't move from his position on the floor. His emotions were running too high and too fast at the moment for him to be confident that he could maintain any semblance of reason while speaking. He thought back to that time in Autopsy where he had started laughing and then broke down in tears. That had been a moment that he had wished more than anything had turned out to be a dream. Oh, how he had wished it was a dream.

The phone started ringing again. Still, Tim ignored it. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He wanted to sleep, wake up and find that all of this was just an extremely-detailed nightmare.

"I want to wake up," Tim whispered. "I want to wake up. I want to wake up." He repeated the words over and over again.

...but instead of waking up, he fell asleep.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim woke up in his bed, bright sunlight shining on his face. His crutches had disappeared. He sat up and looked around in confusion. How had he gotten into bed? He had been on the floor. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, feeling no pain. No pain...quickly, he pulled up his pant legs. There were no stitches, no scars. He ran into the bathroom, pulling off his shirt as he ran. He craned his neck to look at his back. Nothing...no melted skin, no scars, no permanent marker.

"It was a dream."

Tim stretched his mouth into a hesitant smile. He walked around and around his apartment, reveling in the freedom. It had all been a dream. No CIA. No murders. No torture. No kidnaping. He was his old self...his _normal_ self. He was Timothy McGee with no strings attached. Grinning to himself, he walked around his apartment, getting ready for work as usual. It was a simple task, requiring no effort. He left his apartment and drove to work, riding up the elevator. Time passed very quickly. He didn't even notice the drive over.

Tony was at his desk. Ziva was sharpening a knife. Gibbs was...what _was_ Gibbs doing? Tim couldn't quite see for some reason. But that didn't bother him. He sat down at his desk and dove into the mundane tasks which had formerly bored him. He'd never be bored again. He worked hard and gradually noticed an ache in his legs.

_I've been sitting for too long_, he thought and stood up. As he did, he looked up toward the balcony. There were a thousand clones of Ari, pointing guns down at him...and no Ziva to shoot him this time. Tim looked around. It was like the final fight scene in the last Matrix movie. The clones surrounding the one man. He looked around for help...but no one was there. There was no bullpen.

_I'm asleep. I'm asleep, _he told himself. _Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!_

The Aris took aim and fired as one...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim sat up, gasping. He was on the floor. His arms were tightly wrapped around his torso and his legs were aching.

"It was a dream," Tim said and he felt that contentment, that happiness, slip away. "It was a dream. No, it was a dream." For the first time in weeks, Tim felt his emotions surge over him. He couldn't hold them back and he began to sob. Falling back to the floor, Tim curled into a tight ball and cried and cried.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Still no answer, Boss," Tony reported. Gibbs glared at him as if it was his fault.

"Maybe we should check on him," Ziva suggested. "It has been a few days. What if he is injured...again?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Injured? What could be worse than what he has?"

"Don't start that, DiNozzo."

"Boss, Ziva's right."

Gibbs glared again. "All right. Go. Just...don't tell Abby."

Tony and Ziva looked at each other and then ran to the elevator. Abby had a way of turning up at the worst moments.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Do you think he is all right?" Ziva asked.

"No. McGee hasn't been all right for months. I don't see why today should be any different."

"Okay...less all right than he has been?"

Tony focused on the road. "He's not talking to anyone...not really. He's supposed to be coming to work on Monday, but he doesn't seem to care. He's not writing. He's not happy. What do you think?"

"I think that I am tired of the word _thinking_. That seems to be all he does. I have tried to tell him that we are here for him, but he does not seem to _think_ it will help."

"Maybe he's right," Tony said, slowing to a stop at a red light.

"What?"

"Maybe we can't do anything for him. We tried last time...look how well _that_ turned out. Maybe there's nothing we can do."

"No. I will not believe that."

"Who's Miss Optimistic all of sudden?"

"McGee needs us. He does not _want_ to. That is the problem. He thinks that what he has done has created some sort of...wall, blocking him from the rest of us."

"He's the one building the wall," Tony muttered. The light changed back to green and they crept forward.

"I know, but _he_ does not know. Perhaps if he is at work again, it will help."

"And maybe pigs will fly, Ziva. I'm beginning to think that this is all a waste of time."

"What is a waste of time?"

"This...trying to help. We can't help if he doesn't want to be helped. He held us off last time for a while, and we couldn't do anything. He almost _died_ for heaven's sake. If he refuses this time around...it'll be the same thing."

"So...you want to give up?" Ziva challenged.

"No. I don't. I want to have McGee get it through his thick, overly-intelligent head that we _can_ help, even if we don't get it," Tony shot back. "But we can't _make_ him see that. It has to be him. He was trying before when he left us those messages, but now, he seems to have given up trying. I'm getting tired of talking to a brick wall."

Ziva went through the obvious idiom in her head for a moment before responding. It was getting to the point where she could at least figure them out on her own, but still...

"Can we tear it down?"

"Tear what down?"

"The brick wall. It was an idiom, yes?"

Tony smiled. "Yes, Ziva. It was an idiom. You might be extending it a bit too far, but you got the general idea."

"We can at least...place the explosive charges. McGee might have to be the one to set them off, but we can wire them, yes?" Ziva asked, knowing that she was being ridiculous.

"Explosives? How big a wall do you think this is?"

"Does it matter? If it is keeping us out, then we should destroy it completely."

"Still...what kind of explosives are we talking about here?"

"C-4. It would not take much. Napalm is too unstable."

"And overkill."

"So...I suppose that a nuclear warhead is out of the question on this wall?"

"Radioactivity? That has possibilities," Tony said.

The mindless rambling cut off abruptly as they reached Silver Spring. While it was most likely that Tim just couldn't be bothered to answer his phone...what if he had disappeared..._again_?

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim heard the knocking, but he couldn't break out of his despair to answer it. He was still in the same place on the floor, still crying. He didn't know how long he'd been there, but it didn't matter.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"He is not answering...the brick wall is now a door," Ziva said.

"Give the wall a rest, will you?" Tony said. "Instead of blowing it up, why don't you just break in? I know you can."

"Of course, I can. I just did not think Tim would appreciate the invasion of his privacy."

"If he's there and not answering, he deserves it. If he's not there, then he won't know. If he's there and there's a problem...he won't care. So open it."

"Can you not?"

"Yes, I can. I just thought you might need the practice," Tony replied, the challenge obvious. Ziva took the challenge and the door was open about twenty seconds later. They heard Tim crying from the front room and ran back to his bedroom, expecting the worst.

...the worst was what they got. Tim was curled up in a fetal position on the floor, his arms around his stomach as if he felt sick. His eyes were tightly closed, but they couldn't keep the tears from falling down his cheeks. He was gasping the way people do when they've been crying for too long.

No matter what their views on Tim's mental state were, both Tony and Ziva knelt down beside Tim, trying to ask him what was wrong. His body was so tense that they couldn't even lift him up.

"Tim, what's wrong?" Tony asked, mentally adding _this time_ to his question.

"It's just a dream," Tim whispered.

He hadn't expected an answer...

"What?"

"It's just a dream," Tim wept.

"What did you dream, Tim?" Ziva asked.

"I dreamt it never happened. I dreamt this was all a dream...but it was a dream. It did happen. It all happened. I didn't want to wake up...but I did. There's no going back."

Tony looked at Ziva and sighed. Then, he reached out and pulled Tim to him. To his surprise, Tim went limp in his grip, still sobbing.

"I can't do it. I can't. I've tried. I've tried so hard, but I can't. People watching me. The pain, the...the agony, the guilt. I thought I could do it, but I can't. I just can't. Thousands of Aris shooting at me...but I woke up..."

"Aris?" Tony asked.

Tim was still sobbing like a child, taking the shuddering breaths heralding a gradual decrease in tears.

"Who is watching you, McGee?" Ziva asked.

Tim shook his head. "I don't know. People...at NCIS, other places. They're watching me, and I'm _sick_ of it! I'm tired of being watched! I'm tired of...everything. I can't take it."

"You can, McGee," Tony insisted, not liking the limp feeling of Tim's body. "You got through it before. You can do it again."

"No...I can't," Tim said hopelessly. It wasn't a pleasant conversation, but at least he was talking. "I told her that...that I chose this course because it made me human, but...I just...it hurts. Maybe she's right."

"Who?"

"Tara."

"Tara? When did you–?"

"Central Park. She was...there. She didn't understand me. I didn't understand her...but I think I do, now. It hurts too much to live with it. I can't." Tim cracked open his eyes. They were mere slits. Tony was still holding him in his arms. He stared from Tony to Ziva. "You said before that I was just injured...sometimes...you can't recover."

"McGee..." Ziva stopped the platitude at Tim's expression: tortured. "It is true. Sometimes...there is no recovery, but you are not at that point. You can make it. It will just take time...like before. You need to keep trying."

"I have...they're watching me still. How do I deal with that?"

"Who? Who told you that?" Tony asked.

"Carew. They're watching...because it could happen again, only with someone who...wants to use me to attack the country."

"The CIA is still watching you?"

"Yes. I'm tired of people watching. There's always someone. I'm never alone...and when I am alone, I can't...deal with it. I'm not afraid of them anymore. I'm afraid of...of losing myself even more than I already have, and I don't think I can..."

Tony surprised even himself by rocking Tim back and forth. Ziva even raised her eyebrows a fraction, but it seemed to calm Tim down.

"Can you still use computers, McGee?" Tony asked.

"Yeah..."

"We need your help at NCIS. Can you help us out? Abby's loaded to the rafters with tests she's running, and the IT crowd isn't good enough."

Tim sat up on his own, looking from Tony to Ziva, his eyes opening fully...finally.

"We do need your...expertise, McGee," Ziva said. "We were trying to call."

Tim nodded, a little dazed. "I heard the phone."

"And you didn't answer?"

"I couldn't get up."

They let that pass. "Can you now?"

"Yeah." Tim pushed himself to his feet. He wobbled a little, looking lightheaded. Tony and Ziva both moved to catch him if he started to fall. There was a look of annoyance that flashed across his face but it was supplanted by one of acceptance. No one said anything about it. Tim just looked down at his clothes. "I need to change. Can you wait a few minutes?"

"Sure. You going to keel over?" Tony asked.

"Nope. Got my sea legs."

"We'll just wait out here then."

As they waited, Ziva noted the dust covering Tim's typewriter. "He has not even dusted it."

"No."

"This will help him."

"Are you sure?"

"Maybe."

Tim came out in his usual work clothes. It was a promising look...except for the crutches, although he was needing them less and less.

"Okay...you sure you need me?" he asked.

"Definitely. I can't even tell you what we need you for," Tony said. "It's so far above my head that I can't explain it."

"That does not take much, Tony," Ziva said. "We do need your help. Gibbs was going to wait until you were supposed to come back on Monday, but this is important."

"Okay. Let's go," Tim said and followed them out of his apartment.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: I Cried with my Whole Heart**

"My savior! Tim! Man, I'm sooo glad you're here," Abby said when her door opened.

"You're never happy to need my help," Tim pointed out a little suspiciously.

"That's not true! I haven't resented your superior skills for years!" Abby smiled.

Tim gave a hesitant grin.

"I promise!"

Tim relaxed a bit. It couldn't possibly be Abby.

"So...what do you need?"

"Can you see how much crap I have to go through today? I just need someone intelligent to break into the computer files and tell me what our John Doe was doing with his time. For a guy who apparently never got into any trouble, he sure has some heavy-duty blocks on his hard drive."

"Everyone has something to hide," Tim said softly, almost to himself.

Abby looked as though she wanted to comment, but she held herself back. Instead, she grabbed Tim by the hand and led him to the laptop in her office...at least until she realized that he needed his hand for his crutches.

"Will this work for you?"

"Perfect," Tim answered. He began to work on the laptop, glad to see that this really _was_ something difficult, rather than a sop to ease his guilty conscience. The John Doe had blocked his files very effectively, and Tim actually had to work on it for a few hours before he managed to break through. Abby, meanwhile, was muttering to herself as she worked on the various tests she had to run. Gibbs came in at one point to check on what she'd found. He spared a glance at Tim, and Tim felt his gaze. He looked up, but Gibbs didn't come in and didn't say anything to him at all. Tim wasn't sure if he should be worried by that.

Tim was surprised by how good it felt to be working. He had been dreading his return to NCIS, thinking that he would surely feel out of place and worthless...but he didn't. He felt...almost normal, doing the work required of him and nothing illegal. It was pleasant, really, just sitting back and breaking into someone's computer. Nothing to think about except the codes...just like what he had done for Carew. Tim's hands started shaking.

"It isn't the same thing," Tim whispered to himself, closing his eyes to block out the computer screen.

"What isn't the same thing?" Abby's voice intruded on his panic.

"Nothing, Abby."

Abby grabbed the arms of Tim's chair and turned him around. "Don't make me handcuff you to the chair again, Tim." She was shocked when Tim simply sighed and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her in a desperate hug. "What is it?"

"Don't you ever get tired, Abbs?"

"Sure. I usually sleep when that happens."

Tim didn't respond. He just held her more tightly.

"Tim, what's wrong? You were...okay before."

"Abby, I'm not okay. I'm messed up in my head. I can't think straight anymore. Everything gets all twisted."

Abby tried to pull back so she could look at him, but he was holding her so tightly that she couldn't.

"Tim, tell me what happened."

"Nothing."

"No, I mean before. Do you know that I saw you unable to speak in the hospital and then suddenly in the psyche ward at Bethesda? What happened in between?"

"You know all that, Abby."

"No, I don't. I just know that _something_ happened."

Tim was silent, and Abby stopped trying to pull away. Instead, she returned the hug.

"Tim, I just want you to feel better. I don't care what you did. I do know the essentials. What I don't know is you, how you felt...everything like that."

"How will that help?"

"Maybe it won't, but at least I'll know...and I won't be so curious."

Tim suddenly laughed. It was more a hiccup than a laugh, as short as it was, but Abby chose to take it as a laugh. From her own visits as well as talking to Tony and Ziva, she knew that Tim seemed afraid to actually talk about everything that had happened, as if that would make it more real or something. He had let things out, but it was in short bursts when he couldn't contain it anymore or when he felt safe enough to do so. She wanted him to feel safe, to open up a bit.

"They stabbed a needle into my head," Tim whispered.

"What?"

"That's how my handler induced the aphasia. She jabbed a needle into my head. If you feel around, you can still find the hole they drilled. Tara used the same hole when she got rid of it. It felt...like my whole body was on fire. The needle...wasn't as bad as the rest. Abby...I was helpless then. Both times. My legs were broken. I was strapped to the table so I couldn't...writhe. I could only scream. And that's what I did."

Abby's grip on Tim tightened. "Oh, Tim...that's awful."

"Understatement of the year. I wanted to die, it hurt so bad."

"Tim, let me go."

Reluctantly, Tim released her. Abby grabbed a chair, pulled it over, sat down and then hugged him again.

"I just wanted to be on the same level."

She heard another hiccuping laugh.

"I didn't know how hard it was going to be. It got to the point that I just wanted to finish so I could stop thinking about it...but I couldn't stop thinking about it. It was nearly all I could think about...and they were always watching me." Abby suddenly felt tears seeping through the shoulder of her shirt. For the first time, she realized that Tim was crying. Because there had been no wailing or gnashing of teeth, she hadn't noticed it, but Tim was crying. "I can't stop...thinking about it. I think about it all the time. The codes, the lines, the pieces are still in my head, Abbs. They're all there...and what if this happens again? What if I'm forced to do this again?"

"No one else knows about it, Tim."

"They didn't know before, but they chose me anyway. Abby, do you know what my handler had to do to me the last time? I worked so long that I passed out because she forced me. Even then, she would have made me work longer if I could have...but I couldn't. I went to work and Gibbs sent me home because I was so out of it. When Carew...he didn't threaten me. He didn't do anything, but he understood me and he still forced me. There still was no real choice to make. Now, I've done it twice. I could do it again, faster. It would even be pretty easy because the coding is all in my head. Abby, I've seen too much. I know too much. ...and they're watching me because of what I know."

"Who is?"

"The CIA. Carew told me that..."

"Wait, Carew? When did _he_ talk to you?"

"I called him. He said the world needs people like me, and that I'm too much of a danger to be left alone. People are watching me to make sure that no one else gets to me. I can't stand being watched anymore, Abbs." There was a considerable damp spot on Abby's shoulder, but it was amazing that Tim's voice still sounded the same and that he wasn't sobbing as he had before. These tears were much deeper.

"Tim..." Abby hesitated. "...is it...is it really so bad that they're watching?"

Tim started to pull away, but she didn't let go.

"Think about it. If they're watching to protect you...then, shouldn't that be easier?"

"Easier how?"

"It's like being in protective custody. Because there are people looking out for you, you don't have to stress so much."

"They're _watching_ me, Abby. I've had too much of that."

"But it's not going to go away, is it."

"Carew said, not until I'm obsolete."

"And, Tim, my favorite computer geek...you won't be obsolete until you're dead."

That same strange-sounding laugh came from the area of her shoulder again. "That's not exactly comforting."

Finally, Abby pulled herself from Tim's grip and stared straight at him, her arms on his shoulders. The tears were still trickling silently down his cheeks. He made one brief effort to wipe them away and then dismissed it as a futile task.

"Timothy McGee, you don't know who is watching you?"

"No."

"Is there any way you could find out?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I got the feeling that it wasn't an official action."

"Then, there is _nothing_ to gain by worrying about it."

"Except paranoia," Tim said, his voice shaking for the first time.

"Exactly my point. Tim, I care for you, and I hate to see you like this. We all do...and you know what? I'm going to have to deal with it because I can't change you. I wish I could. I wish I could just snap my fingers and take all this away, but I can't."

"I can't either, Abby," Tim said plaintively.

"I'm not saying you should. You are just going to have to deal with it...just like the rest of us...only you can't get away from it, ever."

"Again..." Tim tried to smile. "...not very comforting."

Abby returned the attempted smile. "Oh, Tim...the thing is...you _can_ get better. You can stop this, but you have to keep trying."

"I don't know if I can, Abby."

"You can't if you don't think you can."

"I'm not the little engine that could, Abby. Sometimes..."

"Hey, there's something to be learned from that annoying little train."

"Yeah, it repeated itself and was annoying," Tim said, but his expression lightened just enough to goad Abby into going on.

"So...don't repeat yourself," Abby said. "The words weren't important. It was what he did. Besides, you keep saying you can't. You're repeating yourself, too...and at least the little engine was happy."

Tim's head dropped just a bit. "Abby, I dreamt I was happy...but that's all it was. Just a dream. I hardly remember how it feels."

"Doesn't hugging make you happy?"

"It made me feel better."

"Hey, that's _something_, isn't it? You're reaching too high, Tim. That's the biggest problem. Of course you're not going to make it to the top just by jumping. You don't jump very high."

Again, that sad smile, but it was still a smile.

"You need to learn to pace yourself...like runners."

"Running, jumping...I'm really not the person for the athletic stuff, Abbs."

"Well, I can't think of any others. I'm winging it, okay?"

Tim laughed a little. "You're doing a great job, Abbs. As usual."

"Well, just let us help you out a bit...lift you to the next level and all that because we _want_ to help you. We really do...but if you won't let us, we can't do a single thing...and do you _know_ how frustrating that is?"

"Yeah...Abbs. I do."

Abby smiled, but as she looked in his eyes, she noticed that the shadowed had lifted...only a little and it wasn't permanent, but it had lifted. It was a relief because she was glad to know she wasn't lying.

"So...you finished?" she asked, deciding that she had done enough for the moment.

"Uh-huh. I was just going through the hard drive to see what was there," Tim answered. His voice took on a determinedly-calm tone, and Abby was okay with that.

"What have you found?"

"Not much...but here there's a bunch of space that should be empty...it's not. I was just going to..." Tim relaxed into his work, and Abby encouraged him...but she did not patronize him. The questions she asked were important questions, and Tim gave the answers, when he had them. When he didn't, they worked together as they so often had...and they found them. It was almost like the old days...from before he had been taken the first time.

In fact, it was so easy for him to be there that Abby just gave him other stuff to do that she'd been putting on the back burner. Tim took it with enthusiasm. The team came in at one point, but Abby put her finger to her lips and shook her head. They all watched Tim work with something more than relief. Then, they left Tim to his work.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Hey, Tim!" Abby said a few hours later.

Tim didn't even look up.

"Tim!" Abby shouted.

Tim jumped and looked up. "What?"

"Come on!"

"Where are we going?"

"To a movie!"

"Why?"

Abby was confused. "Why? What kind of a question is that? It's fun."

"Do I have to?" Tim asked.

"Yes. You have to."

Tim looked at the computer for a few seconds and then looked up at her again and smiled. "You sure?"

"Tim, you're just being contrary."

Tim grinned. "Would I do that?"

"Yes. You would. Now, get your crutches and come on!"

Tim sighed, but he tried to get up. He tried, but his legs buckled beneath him. Abby grabbed him quickly and kept him from collapsing.

"Whoa!"

Tim flushed and stared at his feet. "Sorry...sitting for too long."

"It's okay. Feeling better?"

"Trying to," Tim said, not looking up.

"The movie is still waiting."

"Well..." Tim took a deep breath and looked up. "...we shouldn't keep it waiting, right?"

"Right!"

Tim got up again; his legs held him up that time. Abby let him do it himself, and they left together, meeting up with Tony (of course) and Ziva in the bullpen. Then, they all headed out.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Is There No Balm in Gilead?**

Tim sighed, his hard-won patience lost. It was fragile at best...now, it was gone. With an angry shout, he pounded his fist on the table. Hard. The computer shook and Abby's most recent Caf-Pow! (nearly empty) wobbled and fell off the table to the floor.

"No! It's not good enough! It won't be good enough until it's fixed...and it's _not_ fixed!" Without another word, he grabbed his cane and left the lab, leaning on it only marginally. Abby and Gibbs stared after him for just a moment and then, both of them moved to follow.

"I've got it this time, Abbs."

Abby bit her lip and nodded. "Okay."

It had been another month. Tim was still off the active duty roster while his legs healed. They were probably at about 80 percent...but that wasn't enough...and Tim's mind was still fragile enough that extra time off was a good thing anyway. This latest display of temper was a good indication of where Tim was. He'd been doing pretty well, but any time he started to mess up or he felt he wasn't doing a good enough job at his task, he got angry...not at anyone else, only at himself...which was bad enough. He was trying. They could all see it, and often he succeeded, but not always, and it was a frustrating process.

Gibbs walked out into the hallway and saw Tim at the elevator, pounding on the buttons...with his cane. He hated the cane...but what he hated even more was the fact that he still needed it on occasion. It was just another reminder of what had happened and what he had done. He didn't need that.

"McGee!"

Tim stopped hitting the defenseless elevator buttons, but he didn't turn around.

"That's not going to get the elevator here any faster...and besides, you still have work to do."

"Boss, I can't! I keep messing it up! Every time I think I'm getting close..."

"McGee...you know this isn't the way to deal with it."

For a moment, Tim looked as though he'd like to bash Gibbs over the head with his cane...causing Gibbs to reflect on the wisdom of giving a person struggling with misplaced aggression such easy access to a weapon, but then, Tim sighed and dropped his head.

"Boss, I know. Sometimes...I just..." He sighed again. "I don't where it all comes from. I think I'm okay...but then, it's just..." He shook his head. "I'm not ready."

"Not ready for what?"

"To go on active duty again. I'm supposed to have an evaluation this week. Tomorrow. My legs still aren't up to par...and my head isn't either. We all know it. There's no point in even _having_ the evaluation, not when I know I'm just going to fail it anyway."

"There is a point."

"What's that?"

"I know that Jenny will be conducting your evaluation."

"What? Why? She's not my doctor. She's not my therapist...why would she–?"

"Have you made a report to her?"

"No."

"Then, I'm sure she's going to take this opportunity to get the whole story from you."

"She could have done that anytime."

Gibbs shrugged.

"Oh, man. Abby's going to be so mad at me."

"What for? That was positively calm by your standards."

"I knocked over her Caf-Pow!, though."

"Well, it was nearly gone anyway...but you can always buy her a new one to make her love you again."

Tim shrugged.

"Are you doing anything besides work, McGee?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what are you doing when you're not here?"

"They still take turns dragging me places," Tim said.

"You're not going willingly?"

"Not always."

"So...why do you go then?"

"Because, I don't want them to feel like they're not doing any good. I know they're trying." Tim was still looking at his feet. "Tony, especially, feels guilty about what happened...and he wants to make up for it."

"Please tell me that you're seeing the irony of _you_ trying to make _them_ feel better by letting _them_ feel like they're making _you_ feel better."

Tim smiled at his feet.

"So...besides being unwillingly entertained, what are you doing?"

"Work. Therapy."

"What about your book?"

Tim looked up, frustrated again. "I'm blocked. I haven't written a word in weeks. For a while I was sitting there for hours just staring at the stupid thing. I can't even free write."

"Why not?"

Tim looked back down at his feet. "Because of what's in my head."

The elevator doors dinged open. Both men ignored them and the doors closed once more.

"What do you mean?"

"All I can think about is..." Tim hesitated and then looked up.

"Yeah, I know."

"No, Boss. I don't think you do."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "Then, explain."

"It's that program I wrote. When I have the time to think, that's what is in my head...that and Carew."

"What about him?"

"I think he wants to...keep me in reserve."

"For what?"

"I don't think _he_ knows, but...he gave me unrestricted access to the CIA servers that hasn't been rescinded...and I can call his office directly without going through anyone else. And there are people watching me. I think he wants to have me available if something else comes up. He offered me a job, remember?"

"You refused."

"Yeah, and he knew I would, but what matters is that he offered. I honestly don't think that's changed. He said that they'd be watching me until I'm obsolete...and as Abby so eloquently said, that will be when I'm dead. I could make that program again. I could write it from scratch. It would be...well, not _easy_ because it would take a while and I'd have to hack into the various..."

"Do I need to know this, McGee?"

Tim grimaced. "No, probably not. The point is, Boss, that I think about it all the time. I could go into Abby's lab, sit down at a computer and start rebuilding it. It's still in my head, Boss."

Gibbs looked at Tim for a long moment. "Do you know anything about carpentry?"

"What?"

"Carpentry, McGee...building things out of wood?"

"I know what the word means, Boss."

"Well?"

"No. I haven't. I don't work well with my hands."

"That's going to change. Be at my house by eight." Gibbs stepped in front of him and pushed the button again.

"Why?"

"Be there, McGee...oh, and you'd better buy Abby another Caf-Pow! before you go back to work."

Tim winced. "Yeah." When the elevator doors opened, Tim got on with Gibbs, wondering what to expect.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was exactly eight o'clock, and Tim was standing on Gibbs' front stoop, his hand in the air, ready to knock...but he wasn't actually knocking.

_What am I doing here? This is crazy. Gibbs is going to kill me or something._ The irrational thoughts ran through Tim's head, repeating with depressing frequency. _He's going to say that it's taking too long and they're going to fire me. Or maybe...maybe it's just that I've been such a nut the last month that..._

The door opened; Tim's fist was still hanging uselessly in the air, his eyes wide.

"McGee, how long have you been standing out here?"

"Uh...what time is it?"

"8:05."

"About ten minutes."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "You can put your hand down now, unless you planned on hitting me with it."

Tim hurriedly dropped his hand to his side and felt the sweat building up on his other hand as he gripped the handle of his cane.

"Follow me."

Tim did so, not daring to do anything else. Why was it that he had faced down people who had terrified him beyond all reason and yet Gibbs could still render him speechless?

"You're not in trouble, McGee," Gibbs tossed back over his shoulder.

"I'm not?"

"No. Get down here."

"What am I doing here, Boss?"

"You're going to start a new hobby."

"What's that?"

"Carpentry."

"Boss? I can't build boats."

"Of course, you can't," Gibbs said drily. "Do you think that _I_ started out building boats? Carpentry, of any sort, takes a lot of time, particularly when you're self-taught. Nope, you're starting out much simpler. I have only one rule."

"What's that?" Tim asked, afraid.

"Don't break my tools. Mess up all the wood you want. I have plenty of scrap, but you break my tools and your name is mud."

Tim gulped. "Yes, Boss. So...what am I building?"

"A box."

Tim looked incredulous...and just a bit insulted. "A _box_?"

Gibbs grinned. "You're going to mess it up. Everyone screws up the first time...and the second...and sometimes the tenth. The dimensions are written out over there. My tools are at your disposal so long as..."

"...I don't break them."

"Exactly. Now, McGee...you need to accept, before you even start, that you're going to mess up. You are. You're not going to be perfect in this. Even if you manage to finish, it won't be perfect. So, resign yourself to screwing up right now. Got it?"

"Yes, Boss."

"Good. I'll be working on my boat." Gibbs grabbed the slick and started toward the frame, but he stopped and turned around. "By the way, I'll slap you so hard you'll be seeing stars if I catch you trying to use a calculator. Feel your way through. Follow the grain."

"But...Boss..."

"I use hand tools, McGee...so unless you happen to have an abacus with you, you'd better make do with them as well."

"Yes, Boss."

"So, get to work."

"Yes, Boss."

Tim hesitantly walked over to the scrap lumber, picked out a few pieces and then walked over to the work bench where Gibbs had written out the dimensions. He swallowed. _Well...Gibbs must have a reason for this._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Oh, crap!"

The heartfelt expletive brought a smile to Gibbs' face. It was the third time in an hour that Tim had made that sound. This time, it was accompanied with a pounding on the table.

"That better not be my miter saw you just abused."

The voice was small and timid. "No, Boss." Then, there was a sigh. "Boss...I just can't do this. I'm no good at it."

That called for actual face-to-face interaction. He turned and saw Tim, another ruined piece of lumber in his hand, his eyes full of anger...at himself, of course. "McGee...let me ask you something."

"Yeah?"

"You do lots of stuff with computers, correct?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So...you ever build one? People do that, right?"

"Yeah. I've built a few. I have a lot of spare parts in my apartment."

"They work?"

"Not always. Often, I try different things just to see if they'll work. They don't sometimes."

"So...you make mistakes."

"Sure. That's part of the fun, screwing things up so bad that you have to figure out what in the world you did."

"And with computers themselves? You ever make mistakes?"

"Yeah. Not so much now."

"When you were young?"

Tim actually smiled...and chuckled. "Oh, yeah. Drove my mom crazy."

"What did you do?"

"Let's see...I crashed our hard drive...twice, once beyond repair. I activated a virus, on accident, that pretty much destroyed the computer. I messed with the hardware just to see if I could. I think I single-handedly destroyed four computers in as many years."

"What about hacking?"

A cloud passed over Tim's face.

"This last year aside, have you made mistakes with your hacking?"

"Of course."

"Badly?"

Tim hitched one shoulder. "Once."

"When?"

"As a minor. My record was expunged."

"What did you do?"

"I...uh...well, I kind of, maybe, hacked into MIT."

"Maybe?"

"Okay, definitely."

"They caught you?"

"Yeah. I was looking at the admissions records, trying to see if I got in."

"And they still admitted you?"

Tim smiled, although he was a bit shame-faced. "I managed to hack MIT...of course, they admitted me." He shrugged.

"So...you've made plenty of mistakes...and on computers, no less: the place you really stand head and shoulders above the rest of us."

"Of course."

Gibbs looked at him, perplexed. "Then, tell me, McGee. Why are you expecting perfection of yourself now?"

"What?"

"Why, if you accept that making mistakes is not only certain but is also sometimes worthwhile, why is it that you think you have to do everything exactly right, now?"

Tim's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He closed it, thought for a moment, and then opened it again...but again, nothing came out.

"Get back to work, McGee. You have a box to build." Gibbs turned back to his boat.

There was silence for another hour. Then...

"Oh, crap!"

Gibbs smiled.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: Why Is My Pain Perpetual?**

Gibbs was right about the box. Tim was right about his evaluation. The box, though finally completed, was terrible. Tim remained off active duty for another month. He didn't say much about his meeting with Jenny, and no one pressed him for it. The surprise was that he didn't seem as bothered by it as he might have been. He brought his box to work and set it on his desk. Tony poked fun at it, and Tim took the teasing with good grace. Still, Gibbs saw him looking speculatively at it occasionally during the day. Then, about two weeks after his evaluation, Tim walked up to Gibbs near the end of the day.

"Boss?"

"What, McGee?"

"Could I try again?"

Gibbs looked up. "Try what again?"

Tim smiled a little. "Making a box? Maybe with sides at ninety degree angles this time?"

Gibbs nodded. "Feel free."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Crap!"

"McGee, don't you know any other words?" Gibbs asked, not turning around.

Tim's voice was laced with frustration, but there was an edge of good humor as well. "Yes, but they usually accompany me throwing things and I don't want to break your tools."

"Good choice."

"What am I doing wrong, Boss?" Tim asked. "This is simple, in theory. I'm supposed to make these boards fit together, glue and nails and all that, but every time I start to put them together, I find that I've measured something wrong or that I nailed at an awkward angle. How is it that I can know _exactly_ what to do in my head, but I can't get my hands to follow my instructions?"

Gibbs put down the slick and turned around. Tim had half a box...and another board that just didn't fit. It was too short.

"In a word, McGee? Practice. This is your second time attempting to build something. You're still expecting it to be perfect."

"Well, shouldn't I be shooting for something better than...than _this_?" He pointed at his rather lackluster attempt.

"Of course, and cursing is acceptable when you mess up. You just need to not worry so much. Relax. I'm not grading you on it. No one is...unless you are, and you shouldn't be. This isn't MIT, McGee. Nothing depends on you doing this right. Nothing."

"But..."

"No, McGee," Gibbs said, smiling with a little bit of frustration. "Nothing. This is something that you do because you _want_ to, not because you have to...or even that you have to do it well."

"Boss..." Tim's expression was one of defeat.

"Just try it again, McGee. Try a different approach. If you mess up, see if you can still salvage it; don't just throw it away. Try. If the measurements I provided aren't helping, then toss them. Do your thing. I won't be offended." He walked back to his boat and started to work again.

After a few minutes of silence, he heard the pounding of a hammer against wood...and then...

"Okay, let's see," Tim whispered to himself.

Gibbs nodded and focused on his own work.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Oh, piffle!"

That caused Gibbs to turn around. "Piffle?"

Tim looked up from his latest attempt. "It's a synonym for crap."

"I see." Gibbs turned back and he heard the sound of a hammer against wood again.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Oh!" It wasn't an angry _oh_ or even an annoyed _oh_. It was an _oh_ of surprise. Gibbs didn't turn around, however. It was up to Tim to say whether or not he wanted Gibbs to see his efforts. Tim didn't say anything else, but the silence behind Gibbs was studious, eager. There was the sound of a saw moving back and forth across a piece of lumber. Quick, even strokes. Tim had become rather skilled at sawing, even if construction was giving him trouble. Interestingly, there was no renewed hammering or even more sawing. There was more studious silence. Tim had had some sort of great and glorious breakthrough. Now, whether that breakthrough would lead to a decent box later on was questionable, but trial and error was the name of the game.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim was determined. It was a Saturday and he asked if Gibbs would mind if he stayed until he finished, even if Gibbs had to leave somewhere. Gibbs didn't mind, but he was surprised by Tim's dedication. He wasn't even sure if Tim was actually enjoying himself.

The only scare for Gibbs came when he was upstairs, taking a break from his boat. There was no timetable for him. He worked when he felt like it and stopped when he didn't. However, the stream of pain-filled expletives (_not_ crap) that wafted through the air made him worry that Tim had really hurt himself. It was certainly a lot more swearing than he'd heard from Tim in a while. He ran down the stairs and saw Tim holding his hand, his eyes tightly closed, a few tears escaping from beneath his lids. The expletives ceased and he was breathing deeply.

"What happened?"

Tim clenched his teeth for a moment and then opened his eyes. "I slipped," he whispered, trying to keep the tears out of his voice. "I was getting ready to...hammer and, the board slipped. I was already swinging. Couldn't stop soon enough." He smiled, but he was still holding onto his hand. "At least, I wasn't using the claw side."

"Yeah." Gibbs came down the rest of the way, more calmly. "Let me see."

"It's not too bad, Boss. I was starting to slow down."

"Let me see." Sure enough, Tim had hit his hand just to the side of the center of the back of his hand. The pattern of the head was imprinted on his skin. Gibbs took Tim's hand and felt it gently. Tim winced at the probing, but he didn't pull it away. "You're lucky. You didn't break anything."

"Good...but if I didn't, I'd hate to feel how breaking my hand feels."

"It hurts."

"I'm sure."

"You ready to take a break?"

Tim pulled his hand back and winced. "That's not funny, Boss."

Gibbs smiled. "I think so. Come on upstairs. You can put some ice on that...and take an aspirin or two."

"Can we skip the ice and go right to the aspirin?" Tim asked as he followed Gibbs up the stairs.

"You'll want to have both."

"Okay."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The sun was on its way down when Tim made his next triumphant noise. Even the accident hadn't turned him away from working on the box again.

"Where's the t-square?" Tim muttered to himself. "I know I just had it."

That was a good sign. If Tim was actually going to test the sides of his box, he must feel that they were close.

"Ha!" The sound was not loud. It was whispered, but somehow, in that whisper, Gibbs heard a lot more triumph and satisfaction than he would have if Tim had shouted. Still, Gibbs didn't turn around.

"Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"You have sandpaper?"

Inside, Gibbs was celebrating, because Tim cared enough about the finished product to want it to look better.

"On the shelf."

There was a muttered, _which one_, but Tim searched around and found it himself. Then, there was the soft _swish_ing sound of sandpaper running back and forth across the wood.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Well, Boss...it's not perfect, but..." Tim trailed off as Gibbs turned around. He held up the finished product and waited.

Gibbs held out his hand for the box, not speaking. Tim handed it over, waiting to hear what he might have done wrong or what he might have missed. As Gibbs looked it over, Tim also scrutinized his work. Maybe he should have used different wood? Maybe he shouldn't have gone for the inset top and bottom? Maybe it would have looked better if he had–?

"Nice work, McGee."

"Really?"

Gibbs smiled. "Yeah. I think you'd need a router to get the whole thing totally smooth, but this is good. What are you going to do with it?"

"Do?"

"Yeah. Now that you've built the box...what is it for?"

Tim took back the box. He hadn't even considered it as something useful. He looked back at Gibbs.

"It's a box, Boss. What _could_ I do with it?"

"If you cut off the top, you could attach some hinges and have a little storage container. You could decorate it and then use it for a display. That's the nice thing about boxes. You have choices."

Tim stared at the box for a while. "How would I go about cutting off a lid?"

"Well, you wouldn't do it today, that's for sure."

"Why not?"

"The glue won't be dry enough. The whole thing needs time to settle in, I guess that's the word. Wait until tomorrow at least."

"Okay, Boss." Tim looked at his box once more, and Gibbs was gratified to see a look of pride on Tim's face.

Tim didn't stay much longer. He thanked Gibbs and left. After he was gone, Gibbs walked over to the box. In its current state, it wasn't much to look at. Tim had made it from various types of scrap lumber, no thought as to matching the wood grains...but...Gibbs picked up the t-square. He smiled. Yes, it was square. Tim had achieved his ninety-degree angles...or at least close to it.

"Good job, McGee," Gibbs said softly and set down the box.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Monday came...and the box Tim had made first remained on his desk. Gibbs was surprised that he hadn't replaced it with the box he had finished on Saturday. He had come by on Sunday to make the lid. Gibbs had been magnanimous and helped him with that part, but Tim assembled it all himself. Then, he had taken it with him. Gibbs had assumed Tim would display it on his desk...but he didn't. Only his first attempt was there.

"Probie, how long are you going to leave that ridiculous...thing on your desk?" Tony asked.

"It's a work of art, Tony," Tim said, smiling a little.

"What kind of art, McGee?" Ziva asked, joining in. "It is all...skewed."

"Isn't that what modern art is all about?"

"It's one step above plywood, Probie."

"It's not the materials that matter. It's the finished product," Tim retorted.

"Yeah, and...this product is..."

"...skewed," Ziva finished.

Tim actually laughed, but he looked at his work fondly. "This is more important than you could possibly imagine, Tony."

"Oh, really?" Tony asked, but there was a hint of worry in his eyes that Tim noticed. He sighed.

"Never mind, Tony." He looked over at Gibbs and squared his shoulders. Gibbs could see how much the effort to remain calm and unannoyed was costing him. "What am I doing today, Boss?"

"You and Abby need to track down a hacker. Someone's been trying to get into NCIS and we're not going to let them."

"Why us, in particular?" Tim asked. "That sounds more like Cybercrimes' domain."

Gibbs shrugged. "Order came down from Director Shephard."

"Okay." Tim walked to the elevator and headed down to Abby's lair. As the doors closed, Gibbs caught the expression on Tim's face...and that was enough to make him glare at Tony and Ziva.

"What?"

"You two need to stop treating McGee as if he's something that will break if you look at him wrong."

Tony exchanged glances with Ziva. "Boss, McGee _is_ liable to break if we do that. He's already done that...more than once."

"How is he supposed to get back into things if you keeping _looking_ at him that way?"

"How are we supposed to get used to him...if he keeps _acting_ that way, Gibbs?" Ziva asked. "He freaked out last week because he forgot to log off his computer. That is not normal behavior."

"No, it's not...but McGee is doing better and he can't continue to improve if even _he_ can see how nervous you guys are around him."

"Is it that obvious?" Tony asked.

"Yeah, DiNozzo. McGee was joking around and you became serious. That's a switch if ever I saw one, and McGee caught it."

"Boss..." Tony hesitated.

"Spit it out, DiNozzo."

"Hey, we're all feeling bad about this whole thing...but we can't just keep catering to everything that's wrong with McGee. We're having problems, too. Sometimes, we don't say _anything_ and McGee freaks out."

"Yes, everything seems to stop when McGee has difficulty. I understand that he is trying, but..."

"But we're getting tired of dealing with it. It's like the last year has been one long therapy session for McGee."

"It is true, Gibbs. I want McGee to get better. I do, but it is hard for us to do our work when we have to worry about whether or not he will get through a day without..." Ziva trailed off as she looked over Gibbs' shoulder.

Tony looked at her in confusion and then followed her gaze. He briefly looked stricken, and Gibbs knew exactly what he was going to see when he looked back. Tim wasn't on the screen, but the odds that he hadn't heard were slim to none.

"Hey...guys," Abby began, trying to maintain a semblance of nonchalance, as if she and Tim hadn't just heard their conversation.

"What, Abby?" Gibbs asked.

"You forgot to give McGee and myself the location of all this hacker info we're supposed to be digesting. Any chance we could get that so we can get to work?"

"Sure, Abbs. All the info is with Brandon Reagan in Cybercrimes."

"Oh, Brandon...I don't really like him all that much," Abby said. "Fine. Thanks. We'll...get started...then." She signed off.

There was a dead silence in the bullpen with everyone wondering just how much Tim had heard. Gibbs didn't say anything. His phone rang and he sat down to answer it. Tony and Ziva looked at each other with regret.

"Grab your gear," Gibbs said. He wasn't angry. He didn't shout. He just left, and they followed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

There was a lot of awkward silence in the lab as well. So much silence that it filled up the entire room, permeating every square inch with the elephant that had just stepped in. Tim didn't say anything and Abby didn't say anything. They stared at each other for a few seconds and then Tim swallowed.

"I know you don't like Brandon. I'll call and get the data," Tim said softly.

"I can do it."

"No, I will." Tim picked up the phone and called. He jotted down the access codes and sat down. "So...where do you want to start first?" he asked.

Abby opened her mouth to lie and say that Tony and Ziva didn't mean what they had said...but Tim looked at her once and shook his head. For the first time in weeks, the mask had dropped over his face and he was showing nothing.

"Well, we might as well start at the beginning," she said.

"A very good place to start," Tim replied. It was a joke, but there was no levity. Instead, he just began to work.

Their conversation was confined to the task at hand, no jokes, no banter, nothing. Abby tried to talk to him about what he'd heard, but he just shook his head and continued to work. When the team brought in stuff from their latest crime scene, the awkwardness increased about ten-fold. Still, Tim didn't refer to it, and no one else mentioned it either...they didn't have to. It was screaming itself.

At the end of the day, Abby made one more attempt.

"McGee...it's not..."

Tim looked up at her. "It's all right, Abby." He smiled, but the smile was much more reminiscent of Levi Carew rather than Timothy McGee. "I'm not going to fall apart." He looked at the computer screen, now dark. "We didn't get very far today. I'll come in early tomorrow and see if I can't get a handle on where our hacker is coming from."

"Tim..."

"In fact, since you have all that stuff to process, I should probably just work on it myself. You can get on with your other tests. I don't want everyone else to get behind." Abby started to speak again, but Tim just smiled again and grabbed his bag. "See you tomorrow, Abby." Then, he walked out, not waiting for her.

Abby sat alone in the lab for a moment, looking after Tim. Then, she gathered her belongings and left.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee!" Tony was lying in wait for Tim outside the building.

Tim stopped at looked at him. He didn't look angry, traumatized or any other extreme emotion. In fact...it was the mask, his eyes were as blank as the rest of his face.

"What, Tony?"

"McGee, I'm sorry for what I said."

There was a twitch of a smile. "You weren't lying, were you, Tony? I don't see why you would. After all, I wasn't supposed to be hearing you."

His words were calm, but there was an edge to them that told Tony an extreme emotion definitely lay under the surface.

"Were you lying, then?"

"I guess not."

"You guess? You should probably figure it out before you apologize, Tony. That's a pretty important thing to know." He looked at his watch. "I have some things I need to do tonight; so I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow." Tim walked away, not looking back. Tony noticed for the first time that Tim wasn't carrying his cane. He had been the week before, but now he wasn't. A milestone, walking without any aids at all, and because he and Ziva had opened their big mouths, no one had noticed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tony called Tim later that night, but Tim didn't answer. Everything went straight to voice mail.

"_Hello, you've reached Timothy McGee. If you are someone from NCIS looking for me, worried that I've lost it again, I'm fine. I'm just not available. Try again later or I'll see you on Tuesday. Otherwise, you can leave a message and I'll get back to you."_

That was a new message. Tim obviously didn't want anyone coming by looking for him. Now, Tony had to decide if he wanted to ignore that obvious injunction or if he wanted to show Tim a bit of the respect he'd lost that day and let him be alone. Which would be better? Finally, Tony decided to let Tim make the decision. He hung up without leaving a message and flipped on the television, searching for something to take his mind off the disaster.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_Hello, you've reached Timothy McGee. If you are someone from NCIS looking for me, worried that I've lost it again, I'm fine. I'm just not available. Try again later or I'll see you on Tuesday. Otherwise, you can leave a message and I'll get back to you."_

Ziva listened to Tim's new message with two emotions battling for supremacy: annoyance and concern. What she and Tony had said that day was true, but it hadn't been very nice. It wasn't Tim's fault and it wasn't completely theirs either. It was just a bad situation for all concerned. They should have done more to accept Tim's progress as something worthwhile.

The beep sounded in her ear and she debated whether or not to leave a message.

"McGee...it is Ziva...I...I am sorry for what Tony and I said. It was unkind. True or not, there was no point in speaking it. For that, I apologize. You did not ask for this to happen any more than we did. See you tomorrow."

She hung up and decided that it wasn't really enough, but any more words would be too much.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Once Abby got home, she sat and stared at her phone for a few minutes before picking it up and dialing Tim's number.

"_Hello, you've reached Timothy McGee. If you are someone from NCIS looking for me, worried that I've lost it again, I'm fine. I'm just not available. Try again later or I'll see you on Tuesday. Otherwise, you can leave a message and I'll get back to you."_

"Tim? It's Abby. I know what they said hurt you even if you didn't admit it. I know you didn't want to make waves about it, but if you want to vent or anything, please, please, please, give me a call. I don't like to think of you sitting around doing nothing. Call me. Bye."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs hadn't seen much of Tim that day, and even when he had, he knew he wasn't really seeing Tim. He was seeing that stupid mask, that blankness that covered up what he was really feeling. It was partly his fault the entire conversation had taken place, but perhaps it wouldn't be a complete loss. Maybe, it could clear the air...but first, there had to be some actual conversation, not just Tim answering only work-related questions.

He picked up his phone and called Tim.

"_Hello, you've reached Timothy McGee. If you are someone from NCIS looking for me, worried that I've lost it again, I'm fine. I'm just not available. Try again later or I'll see you on Tuesday. Otherwise, you can leave a message and I'll get back to you."_

"McGee, it's Gibbs. Why didn't you replace your box on your desk with the one you made over the weekend?"

He hung up, reflecting on the fact that a question like that would be more likely to receive a response than anything else he could have said.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim wasn't sure how he felt. Hurt? Definitely. Angry? A little. Confused? Yes. But there had been a level of determination he hadn't thought he had in him to avoid showing _any_ of those emotions. All he wanted to do was get away from them all and think...but because it had happened in the morning. He had to stay. Almost without conscious effort, he had withdrawn. It was so easy, and for once, he was glad of it.

At the end of the day, however, after getting away from Tony, rather than going home to mope or think or whatever, he had gone to the Home Depot in DC before heading back to his apartment. In the parking lot, he changed his message. He didn't want to talk to anyone tonight. He didn't want to hear them apologize for being honest. He didn't want to hear from anyone.

"Hello, welcome to the Home Depot. What can we do for you?"

Tim looked around. "I need to find some stain."

"Our paint department is just over there. If you need any help, just ask a sales associate in that section."

"Thank you."

Tim wandered around for a while and then asked for some help. It was weird to be in a store like this. It wasn't his usual place. As he tried to explain what he needed to the paint expert, he was incredibly aware of his own ignorance when it came to anything wood-related.

"Have you ever considered _not_ covering up the different kinds of wood?"

"Not covering it up? But it's all different kinds. The top and bottom are one kind, one side is another. I don't even _know_ what kinds of wood I was using. It's all just scrap."

"Using different kinds of wood can add a unique element to a piece. It doesn't all have to be birch or pine or walnut or redwood. You can have all types and still have it look nice."

"But...it's..."

The sales associate, whose badge indicated that his name was Jerald, smiled. "It's up to you, and if you want to try and make it all look the same, you can get some paint, but that's not something you should feel is a necessity."

"The grains don't even match."

"If you want to keep the wood looking natural, it's probably better that they don't match. If they did, it would only emphasize the differences in the woods. Now, if you'd like, you can bring in your box and I can tell you what would enhance its strengths."

"I have it out in my car. I wasn't sure if I should bring it in or not. I mean, no one would think I was stealing it or anything but..." Tim trailed off.

"Well, go and get it and we'll have a short consultation."

"Okay." Tim ran out to grab his box. He had thought about bringing it in that morning, but he decided that he wanted to dress it up first because of how happy he was at getting even _close_ to square. "Here it is. It's...well, I'm a beginner."

"I can tell."

Tim flushed.

"That wasn't a criticism. Just a statement of fact. I think this is really good for beginner work. I can see why you want to dress it up. You already put hinges on?"

"I wasn't going to do anything with it at all. I just decided."

"Well, you can always take them off and reattach the lid afterwards. That's not a big deal." Jerald looked it over with an expert eye. "You'll need to sand it some more. Hand-made? No power tools?" He nodded. "Nice job. I think you could buy some semi-transparent stain to really bring out the grain of the wood and that would cover up the fact that you didn't plan on using different woods. If you got the sample cans, you could even buy two or three different pigments to make the wood differences look intentional. The top and bottom are simply pine, cheap and durable. This front side and the left side are walnut; the back is...mahogany; and the right side is...ash."

"You really think that would look better?"

"Yeah. I think you could paint the box and have it look like a box, but if you stained it, it would be art. Walnut and mahogany are darker woods; pine is light, as is ash. You get some nice contrasts that way."

"You're not just trying to make me spend more money?" Tim asked, smiling.

"Well, that _is_ part of my job, but no, I'm just trying to help you get the best out of your work. If you really wanted to go wild, you could turn the lid around after staining everything and let the woods mismatch even more."

"I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of craziness."

"Just a thought. So...what do you want?"

Tim considered. He looked at his box. He wasn't sure he believed Jerald's summation, but...still...as Gibbs said, it's not like there was a _grade_ on this box.

"Let's do the stain."

"Great! Follow me. We use Behr products here and they are..." Jerald launched into his sales pitch and Tim followed, listening to the differences between oil-based and water-based, wiping stains and gel stains. It was more information than he'd ever need, but interesting if for no other reason than that he'd never heard any of it before.

A few minutes later, Tim left the Home Depot with his box and three small samples of stain and a bunch of sandpaper.

When he got home, he was surprised to find that he didn't even feel angry anymore. Hurt and confused, yes...along with a stream of other emotions that had no name...but he wasn't angry. That was something, at least.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: That They May Recover Themselves**

Tim worked on the staining all night. That was something he'd found was a result of his recent experiences. He'd always been able to focus on things intently, but now, it was nothing to devote his whole attention on something like this. It was nothing to tune out everything around him and work. In fact, it was easier than paying any attention to anyone else.

He followed the instructions and taped off each individual part before staining one color. Then, he waited for it to dry. While he waited, he tried to do anything other than think. The first board...he just sat and watched on the principle that, although a watched pot never boils, stain must dry watched or not. It seemed to take forever...so the next board, he cleaned his bathroom. The third board, saw a clean kitchen. The fourth board, a cleaned bedroom. The fifth board, a cleaned main room...mostly. There was a lot of junk he'd promised himself he'd go through, but that wasn't going to happen at one in the morning. There was one board left and he'd cleaned his entire apartment. So, instead of finding something else to clean, Tim decided to go for a walk...at two in the morning...by himself. As he crossed the street, he reflected on the wisdom of his choice of distractions. It seemed silly to do this, but he found that he didn't really care.

Silly or not, it was nice to get out and about, away from the walls that sometimes felt as though they were closing in on him, away from the possibility of someone calling him. He'd received five calls that night. It had made him laugh because, even though Tony hadn't left a message, he'd called first. Ducky had called at about the same time as Ziva and hadn't left a message. Abby called. Gibbs called. They were all so worried. He admitted that he was still having some troubles, that occasionally, he lost himself in the memories of his recent past...but it was happening less and less and he wanted to know why it was that his very presence in the bullpen made everyone edgy. Why was it that Tony still couldn't act normal around him? Why was Ziva still making so many attempts to be nice? Why was Gibbs being so understanding? Why?

He wandered through the streets to the Maryland extension of Rock Creek Park. He didn't wander too far inside. That might be...well, dangerous. Even if the park was safe, that still didn't warrant idiotic frolicking through the trees in the dark. That was just asking for trouble. The stain was probably dry, but now that he was out here, he didn't want to go back. He sat on a bench...and began to think.

_Is this my fault? Should I be trying harder? Am I expecting too much of them? Of myself? Should we all just get over ourselves?_ Questions that he couldn't answer. Tim knew that everyone had been great throughout his extremely long recovery. It was hard for them to deal with...well, with _him_. He had been difficult to be around...and he knew it, even if he couldn't help it too much. _But why can't they see what I've done? How far I've come? Why is it that they're all still afraid of me?_ Tim was still afraid of himself...he didn't need everyone else feeling the same way. _But can I really blame them? If I can't deal with myself how can I expect them to deal with me?_

There were too many unanswerable questions, and Tim, as he often did, felt overwhelmed by them. He didn't even notice the people staring at him from further inside the park. What he did notice was the chill in the air...and the lateness of the hour. Nearly three in the morning. He should go home and go to bed. It was a very sane and rational idea. So he got up and started on his way.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Someone was following him.

Tim looked back over his shoulder briefly once and noticed that it was not just one someone, but three someones. They were hanging back a ways, but they were most definitely following him. He felt his heart start to pound in his chest. He was afraid. Gone was the reflection of moments before. Now...now, he was terrified. He hadn't brought his phone with him. All he had was the key to his apartment.

_Stupid! Idiot!_ Tim berated himself as he continued to walk. There were more lights coming up along the sidewalk, and soon enough, he'd be closer to the downtown area of Silver Spring. More people meant more safety.

_Keep walking. Keep walking. Don't look behind._

Tim took a deep breath. He felt...alone. Afraid. This was a completely different kind of terror from what he'd been feeling. As he kept walking, he wondered why. What was it about this situation that was so different, so much worse than the fear he'd had before?

This fear was real. It wasn't something that he simply couldn't shake. It was real, adrenaline-pumping, possible-danger-looming fear. ...and no one was there to help him, to _save_ him. The people he'd rejected were the ones he wished were with him...and they weren't...by his own instigation. Now, logically, he knew that it was unlikely they'd be there at three in the morning in any case, but still...

The lights were closer. Tim sped up just a little, closer to the lights. Closer to safety. Closer to home.

Then, with relief, he saw the approaching figure of a police cruiser. It was heading the opposite direction on the other side of the street. Without a further thought, Tim sprinted across, nearly getting hit by the car, but so relieved to see someone that he didn't care.

"Hey! Are you out of your _mind_?" A cop yelled from his window.

"Perhaps," Tim gasped. He was breathless, but not from the run. It was from the fear. He walked closer to the car, blinking in the flashlight they shone in his face. "There were some people following me. I just needed to get away from them."

"What are you doing out so late, sir?"

"Not thinking," Tim said.

"Have you been drinking?"

"No, sir. Just acting like a brainless teenager." Tim smiled with a self-deprecatory air.

The beam of the flashlight lowered so that Tim could see. He looked around and noted that his shadows had disappeared. The police officer followed his gaze.

"How many were there?"

"Three."

"Did you see them clearly?"

"Only that they were wearing hoodies. I couldn't see faces. They've been following me for a few blocks. I didn't have my cell phone with me and I couldn't call anyone. I didn't dare stop anywhere."

"That was probably smart. Well, sir, why don't you let us give you a ride back to your place?"

"That...would be great. Thank you. Thank you very much," Tim said. He swallowed and got in the back seat, giving his address. As soon as the cruiser set off, Tim let out a deep sigh of relief.

"Worried, were you?" the cop driving asked.

"More than worried," Tim admitted. "I wasn't sure I was going to make it home."

"Well, next time, don't go out so late, not alone, anyway."

"Believe me: that's not a mistake I want to repeat ever again."

"Good. Some people don't learn...until it's too late."

"Right."

They lapsed into silence and Tim leaned back feeling the release of the tension that had enveloped him.

"Here we are, right?"

Tim looked out the window. "Yes. That's my building. Thank you again."

"Oh, let me get the door. You won't be able to open it."

Tim smiled. "Thanks." The door opened and he got out, unable to suppress his instinct to look over his shoulder again.

The officer smiled. "Go to bed, sir. You're all right. Those guys probably slouched off once they saw our car. Those are people who only work without witnesses."

"Yeah. I can't thank you enough."

"Just doing our job. Be grateful that we were even driving that beat tonight. It's not our usual route. We went around some construction."

"Then, for the first time in my life, I'm grateful for road construction."

The officer smiled again. "Good night, sir."

"Good night, officer." Tim went up to his building, climbed the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door, stepped inside and threw the lock. He took a deep breath and walked over to his box. It looked pretty good. Jerald had been right. Carefully, with shaking fingers, he removed the tape, reattached the hinges and looked at the finished product. Maybe some varnish? But not tonight. It was now nearly three-thirty a.m. Much too early. He'd have to get up way too soon. He set the box aside and walked into his bedroom. Taking deep breaths, he got ready for bed, walking around with a determinedly-slow gait.

He wanted to call someone, to tell them what had almost happened, to have someone tell him it was okay...but he couldn't do that. That was part of the problem...his continual need for help, his emotional overloads. Nothing had actually happened; so he didn't need to call and wake anyone up. What he needed to do was get the little bit of sleep he had available before the new work day began.

Tim sat down on the bed, looked around and, with a sigh, began to cry. It was a release from the fear...but it was more. It was the realization that he had put himself in that situation, one that could have been prevented easily...one that could have turned out very differently.

He fell over onto his bed, pulled his blankets around him and cried himself to sleep.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The alarm came much too soon, and Tim felt ill when he pulled himself from sleep. Slowly, he sat up and rubbed his scratchy eyes. Bad, bad, bad. This was going to be a terrible day. He could barely keep his eyes open at the moment. Groaning, he stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

The water didn't get warm. Ice cold. Tim felt the water and groaned again. What a great addition to his already bad day. Well, there was nothing for it but to shower as quickly as possible. One benefit to taking a shower in cold water was that it definitely woke him up. Tim spluttered and made little shrieking sounds as he showered. It lasted about a minute before he jumped back out of the shower, shivering from the cold. The rest of his apartment wasn't feeling too great either. He had left the window open all night because of his box. He hadn't wanted the stain to stink up his apartment. Still shivering, Tim went into the kitchen, thinking that at least he could make some coffee and heat himself up...but no...the water was on for about two seconds before drying up completely. Tim glared at the offending faucet and then stalked to his door, intent on complaining to the building manager. When he opened his door, there was a note tacked to it.

_To all tenants:_

_A problem with the pipes has required that all water be turned off from 6 a.m. Tuesday to 8:30 p.m. Tuesday. We apologize for the inconvenience._

_Management._

Great. Now, he couldn't even complain. He supposed that he must have been too frightened when he got back from the park that morning to notice the message. Tim shivered once more and decided just to head into work right then. A stop at a Starbucks or something would still get him his coffee and give him a chance to warm up.

He was the first one into work, beating rush hour traffic and the long lines at the coffee shops because of the early hour. He set his stuff down by his computer and then headed down to Abby's lab to get started on tracking down the hacker.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Tim?" Abby asked tentatively. Tim was sitting at the computer working. He hadn't even flinched when she'd turned on her music. "Tim?"

Still no response. Abby walked over and touched him on the shoulder. He jumped up and spun around, his eyes terrified for a moment before he blinked and noticed her.

"Abby!" He breathed out. "Oh...don't _do _that. Man, you startled me."

"Why're you so jumpy?"

Tim just shrugged. "No reason. I stayed up too late, the water's off in my building. I'm just out of whack."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Abby, I'm fine."

"You didn't ever call me back."

"I lost track of the time. I'm sorry. It was nearly two before I even thought about my phone."

"Tim..."

"Abby, it's okay. Really. I'm fine."

Abby didn't believe him, but she didn't want to make him more self-conscious. "Okay, if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"Then, you don't mind going after the hacker by yourself for a bit?"

"Not at all."

"Okay." Abby left Tim to his work, but she kept looking back. The mask was gone, mostly, but she found it hard to believe that he was really okay. He had been positively spooked by her entrance.

But Tim didn't offer any insights. Instead, he worked...and dozed. She caught him drifting off a couple of times, but he woke up on his own.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Hey, Tim?"

Snore.

"Tim?"

Tim was out...like a light. Completely and utterly out. Abby smiled a little, but she shook him awake. He started but nothing like that morning.

"Tim?"

A large yawn and Tim woke up. "What? Did I miss something?"

"About an hour of work."

His eyes went wide in a state of simulated alertness. "An hour? I fell asleep for an _hour_?"

"Yeah...how late did you go to bed?"

"After three."

"What were you doing?"

Tim shrugged. "Nothing important. Time just got away from me is all."

"Well, I hope you made some progress because Gibbs wants a report on it."

"I did make some...but not enough."

"I'll let _you_ tell him that, then," Abby said smiling. "Then, after he finishes cussing you, we can work on it together again. I'm mostly caught up."

"You might have to reassemble the pieces first."

"Come on, Tim. No sense in postponing the inevitable."

"I think there might be," Tim replied, but he got up and followed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"So...you haven't found him."

"Or her," Abby interjected. Gibbs just glared.

"No, Boss. Not yet. I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't mean anything in this case, McGee."

"Boss..." Tony began.

Gibbs ignored him.

Tim did not. "What, Tony?"

"You look like a zombie, McGee. How did you get _anything_ done?"

"Same way I always do, Tony...I work."

"Uh-huh."

Tim looked from Tony to Ziva to Gibbs...to Abby. And he was fed up. He was fed up with the looks, the problems, the delays, the way everyone tiptoed around him, with everything churning around inside his head. He was sick of it all.

"Tony, I know you guys are all tired of me."

"McGee..."

"Let me finish!" he said loudly. He wasn't shouting, but he was tired and he was still a bit wound up from the people following him; it loosened his already loosened sense of discretion. "This whole things sucks. It really does. That's why I didn't want anyone to call me last night. I'm tired of everyone worrying about me breaking down every minute...more than that I'm tired of the fact that the _possibility_ exists that I'll break down at any minute. I wish it wasn't true. I wish it hadn't happened, any of it. I wish that I could wake up and have all this be a dream...but it's not! It can't be and it won't change. I can't change what has happened to me, what I did. Nothing can. I'm doing my best to get back to normal, but it's taking a long time. I know that it is."

Tim paused to take a breath...and no one spoke into the silence. They just stared.

"I'm not mad anymore, okay? I'm not mad. I was yesterday. I was hurt. I still am. I was a little confused because you could have told me this before, told me that you needed a break from me or something. I know that dealing with me is hard. ...but this isn't your fault. It isn't _my_ fault. It's just the way it is and it sucks but it is this way. If you can't handle it, please, just _tell_ me. I can request extended leave or I can quit altogether. Just...don't pretend that it's okay...because it's not. It still isn't...all right?"

There was another period of silence. Tim was done, but everyone seemed to be waiting to make sure that he really had nothing else to say. Then, to Tim's surprise, Tony and Ziva both smiled.

"What?"

"McGee, did you not hear yourself?" Ziva asked.

"Hear myself? Of course, I did."

"No, Probie, at the end there."

Tim felt even more confused than he had the day before. "What do you mean?"

"You said that it wasn't our fault."

"Yeah...it's not."

"You also said that it was not _your_ fault either."

"Did I?"

"Yes, McGee. You did."

Tim went back over his rant in his head. "Are you sure?"

Gibbs chuckled. "Yeah, McGee."

Tim reviewed his words once more. Yes, it was true. He _had_ said that.

"So?" he asked, trying to cover up his surprise.

"So...welcome back to sanity, McGee," Tony said. "We've been trying to tell you that for ages."

Tim shrugged. "So...you were right. So what?"

Ziva walked over. "McGee, I am very sorry for what we said."

"You don't have to apologize, Ziva. You're right."

"That does not mean it was right for us to say it."

"You didn't know I was listening."

"That doesn't change anything."

"Yeah, it does," Tim protested. "You are free to feel I'm an annoying bump-on-the-log."

Abby came up behind him and hugged him around the waist. "You don't _feel_ like a bump on a log."

Tim smiled. "Thanks...I think." He looked at them all, seriously. "You guys, you know this isn't the end of it. I can't guarantee that I'm going to be any easier to deal with."

"We cannot guarantee that we will not hurt your feelings, McGee," Ziva said.

"But I _can_ guarantee that I'll give you more grief about that ugly box."

"Go right ahead, Tony," Tim said, smiling to himself, thinking of the box in his apartment. It needed a bit of sanding...and maybe some varnish. "That doesn't change its importance."

"Okay, I'll bite. What's so important about it?"

"It's a piece of crap," Tim said, smiling. He looked at Gibbs who smiled as well.

"McGee, if you're going to tell me that that stupid box cured you somehow, I'm going to have to smack you upside the head...and then tell Jenny that we've been wasting a lot of money on therapy."

Tim chuckled, but he shook his head. "No, I'm not cured, Boss. Just a bit better...and really tired."

"Why?"

"I stayed up late...staining."

"Staining what?" Tony asked.

"Just another project," Tim said. "By the way, could I perhaps borrow some varnish, Boss? I don't want to buy a whole can."

"Sure. You can drop by and pick it up."

"Thanks, Boss."

"Good, now, everyone get back to work...and McGee..."

"Yeah, Boss?"

"If you're going to stay up late woodworking, either hide it a little better or do it on the weekends because DiNozzo is right: You look like a zombie."

"I'll work on that, Boss."

Tim and Abby descended to her lab once more and everyone else got back to work.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: Lift up Thy Voice for Understanding**

"Thanks for the varnish, Boss. I'll give the can back to you tomorrow." Tim turned to go.

"McGee."

"What?"

"Why did you stay up to work on that box?"

Tim shrugged. "I just wanted to get it done."

"Why?"

"Because, Boss, I like the box."

Gibbs chuckled. "And you had to finish it right then?"

"Yeah."

"Go to bed, McGee...and don't get high on the varnish fumes."

Tim smiled. "Right."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Three hours later, Tim sat back and looked at his box. He had decided to follow the recommendation of Jerald and turned the lid around. Now, with the varnish on, Tim thought that it looked really nice. Jerald had been right. The various wood colors looked intentional. You'd never guess that it had been haphazardly constructed. He had no idea what he'd do with the box now that it was done, but...that didn't really matter. All that mattered was that he had built that box all by himself. He didn't think he'd become any sort of carpenter like Gibbs, but that didn't particularly matter either. It was simply an amazing feat that he'd been able to construct something out of wood, with only hand tools...and it looked good!

He stared at his creation for ten minutes or so and then laughed at himself for his pride. There was something else he felt like doing. He wasn't sure what it was at first. He glanced around his apartment, trying to decide what it was. Then, he smiled. The smile was small at first, but it grew wider as he stood up and walked around his bookshelves.

A few minutes later, there was a tapping sound...like keys on an old typewriter.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Three days later..._

"Agent McGee, would you please join me in my office?"

Tim looked up. He was alone in the bullpen...relatively-speaking. Tony, Ziva and Gibbs were out hunting down the hacker. The Tim and Abby duo had picked up his trail and found his identity that morning.

"Yes, Director. Of course." He stood and followed her up the stairs to her office.

"Please, have a seat." She was uncommonly grave, and Tim became worried as he sat down.

"What is it?"

"Well, I'll get the good news out of the way, first. Normally, I'd like to save it for last, but this time..."

"What's the good news?"

"You've been approved for return to field work. Both your shrink and your physical therapist have given you glowing reviews. They want the return to full active duty to be slow, but they agree that you can start next week."

"Thank you, ma'am." That news would have elated Tim had not the situation seemed so serious. "So...what's the bad news?"

"Agent McGee. What I am about to tell you cannot leave this office...not for any reason. I know that keeping secrets from your friends is the last thing you want or need, but I must insist upon it."

Tim nodded. "At least you're telling me in advance."

Jenny smiled sadly. "You've been through more in the last year than most people go through in their whole lives, Tim. I wish I could say that nothing of the sort would ever happen again, but I can't make that guarantee."

"I know, ma'am. I can't guarantee that I won't step out of your office, trip over my shoelaces and fall down the stairs. I don't expect you to guarantee my safety in a job that is, by its very nature, unsafe."

"Tim, I am happy to see that you've managed to recover."

"Not fully, Director, but I'm getting there."

"Yes. It's always a process, and what I'm going to tell you is not going to aid it, but I hope it won't hinder it too much."

"What is it, ma'am?"

"There are three people who have unlimited access to my office via my phone. They have the number to bypass Cynthia completely and get access directly to me. I don't know who they are, but when they call, the news is rarely good. From what I've been able to gather, they work within the CIA, the FBI and the NSA. They report to me about things that directly affect NCIS."

Tim nodded.

"You don't seem surprised."

"I'm not. The CIA has the same thing here. Carew told me, although he didn't say who...I also have access to his office in a similar fashion."

"You do?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I see."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Perhaps I should have told you before."

"No, Agent McGee, that's not a problem. Have you used that number?"

"Once."

"You still know it?"

"I don't think I can forget it."

"Good. Don't. You never know when you might need such access...no matter how abhorrent it may seem."

"Yes, ma'am."

"To get back on topic, the day you first returned to NCIS..."

"...in the body bag?"

"Yes. I received a call. It was hinting at some danger to you, but it was hinting at more than that. Last week, there was a request that you and Abby work to discover the hacker...which you did. Then, just this morning, I received another call."

"Regarding me, ma'am?"

"Yes. Regarding you. It is no longer a hint. For once my informant was explicit. This isn't going to go away in the short term, Agent McGee. I don't think I can prevent it, but if you really feel that it is too difficult for you, I will do everything in my power to fight on your behalf."

"What is it, Director Shephard?" Tim asked for a third time.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The door to Jenny's office opened slowly and Tim walked out, stunned. Cynthia took in his expression and was instantly concerned.

"Agent McGee, are you all right?"

Tim took a couple more steps and stopped. "Yeah. I'm fine, Cynthia. Thanks."

"Agent McGee."

Tim turned around and stared at Jenny.

"I wish I'd had better news. Like I said, it may be that nothing happens for months, even years, but you have to be ready for it."

"Yes, Director. Thanks." Tim took a deep breath.

"Take some time to absorb it, and remember that you did receive some good news today."

"Yes, ma'am." Tim struggled for a smile and found one deep inside. "I'm going back into the field."

Jenny walked to him and put her hand on his shoulder. "Exactly. I'm proud to have you, Agent McGee. You are an asset to NCIS, and I am very glad that Gibbs didn't let me fire you."

Tim smiled. "If I remember correctly, I quit first."

"True, but he didn't let me accept it. If he had, it would have been the worst mistake I ever made. You are a great field agent and a good man, McGee."

"Thank you, Director." Tim left the outer office.

"He looked a little shell-shocked, Director," Cynthia said.

"Yes. He is. I need to discuss something with you as well, Cynthia. Please, come into my office."

"Yes, Director."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim wandered down to Autopsy. He wasn't sure why, but he knew that Ducky and Jimmy were both on lunch and the room would be empty...except for the corpses. Bodies didn't bother him much anymore. Bodies had never hurt him, only living human beings had. Tim sat down on one of the autopsy tables and focused on his breathing. Jenny had said that it was possible that nothing would happen...but he knew, as she probably did, that the possibility of Tim being kept out of it was unlikely, not with all he'd done.

_Focus on the positive. I'm a field agent again. I'm walking, talking and I built a box all by myself. I'm okay. Not perfect, not complete, but okay._

It took a few minutes, but Tim was able to push the secret he now had to keep to the back of his mind. For a moment, he felt like crying, but he resisted and decided to wait until he got home. He thought of his box, not the one he'd finished earlier that week, but his first one. A box, but skewed, as Ziva had said. That was becoming who he was, recognizable as Timothy McGee, but skewed. He hoped that someday he could be like the other box he'd made. One more deep breath. Then, he walked out of Autopsy to rejoin the world.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Hey, McGee, where ya been?" Tony asked. "You missed our grand entrance with your buddy!"

"My buddy?" Tim asked.

"The hacker! We got him! You missed it."

"Oh, I didn't find him by myself, you know. Abby was doing a lot of it, too."

"So modest, McGee," Ziva said, grinning.

"That's me, Mr. Modesty," Tim replied.

"Whatever happened to Mr. MIT?"

Tim coolly met Tony's gaze. "Oh, I'm still Mr. MIT, Tony. Do you think that because I'm not bragging about it that I still couldn't wallop you in an intelligence test?" He smiled.

"Oh...burn," Tony said, grinning. "As long as there's no athletic component."

"How many jocks do you know who do well on intelligence tests, Tony? There's a reason why there's a stereotype of the _dumb_ jock."

"Wow. Ouch!" Tony put his hand to his heart. "I don't think you've been on fire like this since you called me a monkey!"

"Just catching up."

Gibbs came in and Tim nodded to him. "Hey, Boss. Director Shephard just told me that I'll be returning to active duty on Monday. She said that you'd be getting some sort of 'schedule' to follow."

"Schedule?"

"Yeah...to make sure I don't go in guns blazing...or something like that."

Tony snorted. "Right. Guns blazing."

Tim was stung for a moment but he shrugged it off, although he was pretty sure Ziva caught it. They spent the rest of the day working on reports and if they noticed Tim was withdrawn, no one mentioned it...if only because they assumed that it was due to Tim's continuing recovery. When Tim got up to go home, it was with congratulations and teasings in his ears. He smiled and gave back as good as he got. As he headed toward the elevator, he happened to look up at the balcony. Jenny was there, looking down at him. She was sympathetic. He made a helpless smile. When he looked down to continue on his way, Gibbs was looking at him.

"Good night, Boss. Have a nice weekend."

"'Night, McGee," Gibbs said, but he had seen the exchange of looks, and Tim knew it. There was nothing to be done about it, though. Tim decided not to refer to it, hoping that Gibbs would do the same. The elevator closed without a sudden appearance of any of his team. Tim left NCIS without much fanfare.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The door seemed really, _really_ heavy. Tim pushed it open with difficulty. This day had lasted years. Another secret to keep, another weight...and he couldn't even share the load...maybe with Jenny a little bit, but she was still the Director. That put an automatic distance between them. ...and there was no one else. This was secret, beyond secret. It wasn't even classified. It didn't exist.

Slowly, Tim closed the door, dropped his bag on the floor and dragged himself to his room. He had planned on writing tonight, but that would have to wait. This night was now reserved for reconciling himself to his new position...one that no one would know about...unless something went wrong.

He felt alone...really alone. This wall was not of his making, but he could feel it rising up, brick by brick. He couldn't let it remain that way. There had to be...something he could do to stave off these feelings of loneliness...and fear.

He picked up his phone. "Hey, Tony. You doing anything tonight? How about a movie?" He laughed. "Yeah, I'm suggesting a movie. You know if Ziva and Abby are busy? We could make a night of it, celebrate my return to active duty. Great! Sounds good to me. Sure, see you in a few. Bye."

Tim hung up, looked at his phone and felt the tears. He had a few minutes to cry...to be alone by himself before he was alone with his friends. He let the tears fall, then wiped them away.

Finally, Tim stood up and left in an effort to maintain some semblance of the life he'd been reclaiming.

...and someone followed him when he left his apartment.

FINIS!


End file.
